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This  series  of  Scandinavian  Classics  is  published 
by  The  American-Scandinavian  Foundation  m  the 
belief  that  greater  familiarity  with  the  chief  literary 
monuments  of  the  North  will  help  Americans  to  a 
better  understanding  of  Scandinavians,  and  thus  serve 
to  stimulate  their  sympathetic  cooperation  to  good  ends 


SCANDINAVIAN  CLASSICS 
VOLUME  IX 

ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH 
LYRICS 


THIS  VOLUME  IS  ENDOWED  BY 

MR.  CHARLES  S.  PETERSON 

OF  CHICAGO 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH 
LYRICS 

FROM    1750  TO    I  91  5 

Jt 

TRANSLATED  IN   THE   ORIGINAL  METERS   BY 

CHARLES   WHARTON    STORK 

Author  of  ^^ Sea  and  Bay;"  Translator  of  " Selected  Poems 

of  Gustaf  Frodlng  " 


NEW  YORK 

THE   AMERICAN-SCANDINAVIAN    FOUNDATION 

LONDON:   HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY   PRESS 

I917 


Qopyright,  l<)iy,  by  The  <^merican-Scand'mavian  Foundation 


T>.  S.  Updik^  ■  The  ^Merrymount  "Press  •  "Boston  •  IJ.  S.^. 


TO  THE  SWEDES 

OF  THE  OLD  WORLD  AND  THE   NEW 

A  PEOPLE 

BOLD  IN  SPIRIT,  GENEROUS  IN   HEART 

FORWARD-LOOKING  IN  THOUGHT 

AND  RICH  IN  IMAGINATION 

THIS  VOLUME 

IS  HUMBLY  AND  GRATEFULLY 

DEDICATED 


PREFACE 

IF,  as  Keats  has  said  in  his  Preface  to  Endymion^  there 
is  no  fiercer  hell  on  earth  than  failure  in  a  great  object, 
I  confess  to  feeling  myself  in  a  perilous  position.  It  is  my 
privilege  in  this  volume  to  introduce  to  readers  of  English 
a  body  of  lyric  poetry  which  critics  unite  in  assigning  to 
the  highest  rank  of  literary  achievement.  That  I  am  inade- 
quate to  the  task  may  safely  go  without  saying.  In  defence 
I  may  but  urge:  first,  that  so  fine  an  opportunity  seemed 
in  itself  an  inspiration;  and,  secondly,  that  at  least  the 
attempt  was  not  entered  upon  lightly.  And  even  though 
the  translation  falls  far  below  the  original,  something  may 
have  been  accomplished. 

Further  apology  would  be  out  of  place.  It  is,  however, 
necessary  to  state  briefly  how  I  have  attempted  to  solve 
the  main  questions  of  technic  that  presented  themselves. 
In  the  first  place,  I  have  followed  pretty  strictly  the  meter 
and  rhyme-scheme  of  the  originals,  believing  that  the  form 
of  a  given  poem  is  no  less  essential  than  is  the  thought.  In 
the  frequent  cases  where  I  found  it  impossible  to  give  at  once 
an  exact  and  an  artistic  rendering  of  the  content,  I  have 
tried  to  be  true  to  the  spirit  rather  than  to  the  letter.  To  be 
successful,  a  verse  translation  should,  above  all  things,  be 
poetry.  In  this  adaptation  I  have  sought  to  preserve  at  least 
the  integrity  and  sincerity  of  tone  that  characterized  the 
originals.  Each  separate  instance  demanded  a  separate  ex- 
ercise of  taste,  and  in  matters  of  taste  one  must  not  defend 
one's  self.  Every  effort  has  been  made  to  avoid  "  translator's 


viii  PREFACE 

English"  and  to  re-create  the  lyric  impulses  of  the  Swedish 
into  vital  English  poetry.  The  success  of  these  attempts  is, 
at  best,  uneven.  To  enter  equally  into  the  spirit  of  forty- 
five  poets  living  through  a  period  of  a  century  and  a  half 
and  writing  in  the  most  diverse  and  complex  verse-forms  is 
too  much  for  the  most  daring  writer  to  hope.  It  should  be 
clearly  recognized  that  poetical  translation  is  much  more 
difficult  in  technic  than  original  poetry,  for  the  simple  rea- 
son that  a  man  may  take  liberties  with  his  own  still  nebu- 
lous ideas  which  he  would  not  think  of  taking  with  the 
recorded  thoughts  of  others. 

A  word  as  to  the  selection  of  the  poems  here  presented. 
The  accent  has  purposely  been  laid  on  later  rather  than 
on  earlier  lyrists.  This  was  done  because  the  genius  of 
Swedish  poetry  became  more  marked  as  the  national  char- 
acter began  to  develop  under  freer,  more  modern,  condi- 
tions. Further,  it  seemed  advisable  to  subordinate  historic 
to  absolute  interest  in  an  initial  volume.  Consequently  the 
eighteenth  century  poets, except  Bellman, have  been  passed 
over  hurriedly,  and  attention  has  been  concentrated  on  the 
period  from  1870  to  the  present  time.  Fourteen  living 
poets  are  included;  chiefly,  it  is  believed,  on  their  merits, 
but  also  partly  to  bring  Swedish  poetry  near  to  the  present 
generation  of  American  and  English  readers. 

The  accent  in  selection  has  also  been  strongly  laid  upon 
nine  principal  poets.  The  wealth  of  material  was  so  great 
that  it  seemed  better  to  bring  out  a  few  figures  in  detail  than 
attempt  to  do  proportional  justice  by  all.  The  scholar  will 
find  many  cases  of  omission  and  neglect  which  can  only  be 


PREFACE  ix 

excused  by  the  considerations  just  given.  After  all,  if  the 
reader  obtains  a  fair  idea  of  Bellman,  Tegner,  Runeberg, 
Rydberg,  Snoilsky,  Froding,  Levertin,  Heidenstam,  and 
Karlfeldt,  the  method  of  the  volume  will  be  justified  on 
practical  grounds.  It  is  believed  that  a  sufficiently  wide 
variety,  both  in  substance  and  in  form,  has  been  given  to 
represent  moderately  well  the  lyric  poetry  of  Sweden  as  a 
whole.  All  the  poems  included  are  complete  except  Lid- 
ner's  "Spastara's  Death"  and  Wallin's  "The  Angel  of 
Death,"  both  of  them  too  long  to  appear  in  full  and  too  im- 
portant to  be  disregarded. 

The  Introduction  has  been  made  as  compact  as  possible, 
with  the  idea  that  it  should  be  illustrated  by  reference  to 
the  translations  of  any  given  poet.  For  the  same  reason 
rather  little  is  said  about  form,  as  the  English  stanzas  give 
at  least  the  scheme  on  which  the  music  of  the  Swedish 
poems  is  modelled.  The  Biographical  Notes  are  mainly 
statistical,  repeating  necessarily  much  of  the  Introduction. 
The  General  Notes  give  only  such  details  as  seem  to  be 
required  for  the  understanding  and  enjoyment  of  the  text. 

The  debt  of  gratitude  which  underlies  all  others  is  to  the 
American-Scandinavian  Foundation  and  its  efficient  Sec- 
retary, Dr.  Henry  Goddard  Leach,  since  it  was  through 
the  Foundation  that  I  was  put  in  touch  with  most  of  the 
persons  who  assisted  me  in  preparing  the  volume.  Besides 
details  too  numerous  to  mention,  the  Foundation  insti- 
tuted in  the  Svenska  Daghlad  a  popular  vote  as  to  favorite 
lyric  poems  of  Swedish  literature.  The  result  was  valuable 


X  PREFACE 

both  as  affording  a  body  of  poetry  from  which  to  choose 
and  as  giving  the  proportionate  popularity  of  the  chief  lyr- 
ists. They  stood  as  follows :  Froding  3  7  poems,  Heidenstam 
and  Karlfeldt  each  27,  Rydberg  and  Snoilsky  each  22, 
Levertin  1 5,  Tegner  1 3,  Runeberg  8,  Fallstrom  7,  Stjerne 
and  Topelius  each  6,Geijer  and  Osterling  each  4,  Wirsen, 
Malmstrom, Bellman, Strindberg,and  Ossian-Nilsson  each 
3,  scattering  32.  For  help  in  selection  I  am  also  indebted 
to  Miss  Greta  Linder  of  Stockholm,  to  Mrs.  A.  B.  Fries  of 
Birmingham,  Alabama,  to  Count  Axel  Raoul  Wachtmeis- 
ter,  and  to  the  managers  of  The  Albert  Bonnier  Publishing 
House  in  New  York.  The  Swedish  anthologies,  Ur  Sven- 
ska  Sdngen  by  Karl  Warburg,  A^*  Deklamationsbok  by  Wav- 
rinsky,  and  Svensk  Vers^  a  selection  of  poems  for  school 
reading,  have  been  of  the  greatest  service. 

For  the  actual  translation  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Ernst 
VV.  Olson  of  the  Augustana  Book  Concern,  Rock  Island, 
Illinois,  has  been  invaluable.  He  has  not  only  collated  the 
entire  manuscript  with  the  Swedish  to  test  its  accuracy, 
but  has  been  most  helpful  in  suggesting  emendations  of  an 
artistic  nature.  The  present  text  embodies  dozens  of  lines 
and  scores  of  phrases  which  are  the  work  of  Mr.  Olson.  As, 
however,  his  advice  has  not  been  followed  invariably,  he 
should  not  be  held  jointly  responsible  for  passages  to  which 
exception  may  be  taken.  Mrs.  Fries  and  Count  Wacht- 
meister  have  also  helped  in  solving  special  difficulties. 

The  poems  of  Froding,  perhaps  the  most  important  poet 
represented,  have  been  taken  from  a  volume  entitled  Gustaf 
Froding^  Selected  Poems  ^T^nhYxsh^A  by  The  Macmillan  Com- 


PREFACE  xi 

pany.  They  are  reprinted  here  with  the  courteous  permis- 
sion of  the  publishers.  Certain  other  poems  have  appeared 
previously  in  Harper  s  Magazine^  The  New  York  Nation^ 
The  Bookman^  and  The  Independent.  They  are  here  included 
by  the  kind  consent  of  the  proprietors. 


c.  w.  s. 


^^  Bird-wood,'"  Philadelphia 
June  14,  1917 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  XV 

POEMS  3 

BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTES  267 

GENERAL   NOTES  273 

INDEX   OF  TITLES  277 

INDEX   OF  AUTHORS  281 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

SWEDISH  LYRIC  POETRY  FROM    1718  TO    191 5 

SWEDEN,  together  with  the  other  nations  of  the  Scan- 
dinavian stock,  inherited  the  splendid  tradition  of  Old 
Norse  literature,  its  eddas  and"  sagas,  both  in  verse  and 
prose.  In  the  thirteenth  century  the  Swedish  language 
began  to  develop  a  separate  identity,  but  did  not  for  a  long 
time  produce  anything  of  special  note.  It  is  indeed  remark- 
able that  a  country  of  such  political  importance  as  Swe- 
den should  have  played  so  small  a  part  in  letters  during 
the  renaissance.  Authors  were  few  and,  apart  perhaps  from 
Georg  Stiernhielm  (i  598-1672),  none  became  known  be- 
yond the  borders  of  his  native  country. 

Period  of  Preparation ^  1 7 1 8- 1 7  7 1 
It  was  not  until  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  century  that 
Swedish  literature  began  to  be  a  real  force.  With  the  death 
of  Charles  XII  in  1 7 1 8  the  hope  of  a  Swedish  Empire  van- 
ished and  the  Swedish  people  turned  from  foreign  conquest 
to  internal  development.lt  must  not  be  forgotten, however, 
that  Sweden  had  already  a  brilliant  past  to  celebrate  in  lit- 
erature when  the  time  of  great  doers  gave  place  to  a  time 
of  great  writers. 

The  inspiration  and  the  models  for  a  national  litera- 
ture were  derived  first  from  France  and  England;  from  the 
former  for  poetry  and  the  drama,  from  the  latter  chiefly  for 
prose.  As  in  other  countries  of  Europe,  the  main  standards 


xvi  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

of  writing  were  correctness  and  good  taste.  In  poetry  the 
qualities  of  clear  thinking  and  graceful  phrasing  predomi- 
nated strongly  over  those  of  sincere  emotion  and  personal 
expression.  In  a  word,  Sweden  evolved  a  "polite"  litera- 
ture. From  time  to  time  echoes  of  native  folk-song  crept 
into  the  lyric, but  as  a  whole  the  period  was  chiefly  valuable 
in  fixing  the  character  of  the  language  and  establishing 
patterns  of  smooth  versification. 

Modern  Swedish  Literature, as  critics  call  it, begins  with 
Olof  von  Dalin  (i  708-1 763).  Dalin  imitated  Addison  in 
the  essay  and  Racine  in  the  drama, besides  writing  a  num- 
ber of  epic  and  lyric  poems  in  approved  Augustan  style. 
His  longer  poems  were  allegoric  or  satiric,  his  famous  epic 
Swedish  Freedom{\n  praise  of  Queen  Ulrica  Eleanora)  being 
written  in  Alexandrines  on  the  model  of  Voltaire's  Hen- 
riade.  His  lyrics,  which  alone  properly  concern  us  here,  are 
mostly  graceful  pastoral  pieces,  with  a  freshness  and  light- 
ness in  part,  at  least,  of  native  derivation.  A  literary  salon 
was  established  about  1753  by  Hedvig  Charlotta  Norden- 
flycht,  who  introduced  personal  feeling  into  the  Swedish 
lyric  by  her  volume  The  Sorroiuing  Turtledove^  a  collection 
of  lyrics  the  contents  of  which  can  be  sufficiently  well 
imagined  from  the  title.  To  this  salon  came  Gustaf  Filip 
Creutz  and  Gustaf  Fredrik  Gyllenborg,  authors  of  idylls, 
fables,  and  didactic  poems.  Gyllenborg  wrote  "The  Sea- 
sons," in  imitation  of  Thomson.  Important  as  were  all  of 
these  writers  from  a  historical  point  of  view,  it  can  hardly 
be  said  that  they  exhibited  anything  like  genius. 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xvii 

Gustavian  Period^  1 771-1809 
The  anthologist  finds  little  to  pause  over  until  he  comes  to 
the  poetry  of  Karl  Mikael  Bellman  (i  740-1 795),  but  here 
he  must  linger  long.  One  can  hardly  appreciate  this  mas- 
ter of  improvisation  without  a  glance  at  the  circumstances 
under  which  he  created  his  extraordinary  songs. 

Gustavus  III,  who  came  to  the  throne  in  1771,  aspired 
to  play  the  role  of  a  Northern  grand  monarque  and  suc- 
ceededmeasurablyinhisambition.  Hedominated  hisnobles, 
won  popularity  from  the  common  people  by  his  firm  ad- 
ministration, and  cultivated  successfully  the  arts  both  of 
war  and  peace,  A  beneficent  tyranny  has  often  been  con- 
sidered the  ideal  condition  for  the  artist;  it  was  so  certainly 
during  the  reign  in  question,  Gustavus  III  gave  his  subjects 
leisure  and  contentment,  and  was  the  centre  of  a  brilliant 
court.  In  1786  he  established  the  Swedish  Academy,  to 
standardize  language,  further  the  interests  of  literature,  and 
honor  the  memory  of  great  men.  This  institution,  which  is 
still  active,  had  among  its  original  members  Gyllenborg, 
Kellgren,  and  Leopold,  of  whom  the  last  two  will  be  no- 
ticed presently.  Gustavus  III  set  himself  strongly  against 
the  current  of  the  French  Revolution;  from  his  autocratic 
methods  and  exorbitant  taxes  he  became  unpopular,  and 
was  finally  assassinated  by  a  conspiracy  of  nobles  in  1792. 
His  son,  Gustavus  IV,  attempting  a  similar  rule,  was  de- 
posed in  1809. 

The  period  from  1771  to  1809,  known  as  the  Gustav- 
ian Period,  is  obviously  very  similar  to  that  of  Louis  XIV 
in  France  and  of  the  Age  of  Queen  Anne  and  the  early 


xviii  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

Georges  in  England.  However  faulty  it  may  have  been  po- 
litically, it  was  an  ideal  time  for  writers  of  the  Augustan 
sort.  And  of  such,  with  ail  his  fire,  we  must  reckon  Bell- 
man. Freed  from  political  unrest  by  the  autocracy  of  the 
king,  and  from  private  cares  by  a  sinecure  position,  this 
troubadour  of  Stockholm  had  no  other  concern  than  to 
enjoy  life  and  diffuse  his  enjoyment  among  all  around 
him. 

Although  Bellman  early  showed  a  literary  bent  (together 
with  a  distaste  for  business),  we  are  justified  in  reckoning 
him  as  aGustavian  from  the  fact  that  by  far  his  best  known 
poems, included  in  the  volumes  Fredman^ s  Epistles  and  Fred- 
man's  Songs ^  were  composed  in  the  years  1766  to  1777  and 
not  published  until  1790.  These  poems  are  improvisations 
to  music,  which  was  likewise  improvised  by  the  poet  in 
the  ardor  of  the  moment.  They  depict  with  magical  truth 
and  spirit  the  care-free  life  of  Bellman  and  his  friends  in 
Stockholm  and  its  environs.  Fredman  deals  mainly  with  ex- 
ternals, and  his  simple  philosophy  may  be  summed  up  in 
the  injunction:  No  matter  how  hard  things  may  be,  keep 
up  your  spirits!  Wine,  woman,  and  song  are  the  chief 
motifs^  and  gayety  the  prevailing  mood,  of  these  volumes, 
but  no  lyrics  could  be  more  essentially  original  than  Bell- 
man's. A  dash,  a  humorous  fervor,  and  a  strange  pathetic 
grimness  in  this  poetry  combine  to  make  it  supremely 
personal.  Though  Bellman  was  a  true  Augustan  in  many 
respects,  with  the  Augustan  merits  of  smoothness  and  clar- 
ity, his  vivid  soul  transcended  the  age  in  which  he  lived.  He 
is,  as  it  were,  the  Mozart  of  Swedish  lyric  poetry. 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xix 

Like  all  great  masters,  Bellman  reconciles  the  oppos- 
ing elements  of  style  and  substance,  of  form  and  fire.  His 
content  reminds  one  somewhat  of  the  pictures  of  Rome 
in  Horace's  Epistles.  Fredman,  who  is  the  poet  himself,  in- 
troduces his  readers  to  an  intimate  circle  of  friends:  to 
Movitz,  to  MoUberg,  to  Amaryllis,  to  Ulla  Vinblad,  and 
the  rest.  With  them  we  witness  the  life  of  Stockholm  :  the 
world  awakening  at  daybreak  after  rain,  a  funeral,  a  con- 
cert, a  visit  to  a  sick  friend,  and  various  idyllic  excursions 
into  the  neighboring  parks  and  villages.  The  little  world 
lives  and  we  live  in  it.  Considering  this  phase  of  Bellman's 
genius,  the  critic  will  pronounce  him  a  realist  of  the  first 
order.  But  when  one  notes  his  dazzling  mastery  of  form, 
his  prodigal  variety  of  meter  and  stanza,  his  ease  and  spon- 
taneity, one  is  equally  tempted  to  call  him  a  virtuoso  of 
lyric  style. 

It  was  Bellman's  combination  of  talents  that  made  him 
the  idol  of  high  and  low  alike  in  his  own  time,  and  the 
favorite  figure  of  Swedish  literature  for  later  generations. 
No  foreigner  can  hope  to  realize  what  he  has  meant  to  his 
fellow-countrymen.  He  has  given  them  an  inimitable  picture 
of  life,  and  a  perennial  fountain  of  tuneful  gayety,  through 
the  medium  of  a  lovable,  deeply  human  personality. 

The  chief  conventional  poets  of  the  Gustavian  Period 
are  Kellgren,  Leopold,  and  Anna  Maria  Lenngren.  Of 
Kellgren,  the  leading  satirist  of  Sweden,  it  is  said  that  "  he 
struck  mighty,  flashing  blows  for  truth,  right,  and  good 
sense."  Leopold,  less  keen  and  more  didactic,  lived  on  into 
the  next  age  to  combat  the  tendencies  of  the  romantic 


XX  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

movement.  Anna  Maria  Lenngren,  the  only  woman  poet  of 
marked  ability  in  the  Swedish  Parnassus,  wrote  attractive 
poems  of  sentiment  and  made  skilful  caricatures  of  the 
social  foibles  then  prevalent.  All  of  these  writers  employed 
clear-cut  verse-forms  based  on  the  Alexandrine,  the  octo- 
syllabic couplet,  and  the  quatrain,  though  with  some  lati- 
tude as  regards  the  rhyme  scheme.  Compared  with  Bell- 
man's, their  style  is  as  a  rippling  brook  beside  a  rushing 
torrent. 

The  most  original  Gustavian  after  Bellman  was  Bengt 
Lidner  (i  757-1  793).  Lidner's  brief  career  is  none  the  less 
melancholy  in  that  most  of  his  misfortunes  were  of  his 
own  making.  Suffice  it  to  say  here  that  he  became  estranged 
from  his  kind  and  took  it  upon  him  to  celebrate  those 
equally  afflicted;  such  at  least  is  the  motive  of  his  master- 
piece, "The  Death  of  Spastara."  Lidner  has  imagination 
and  emotional  power,  but  suffers  from  a  tendency  to  rant. 
In  this  respect  he  reminds  one  of  his  English  contempo- 
rary Collins  in  the  "Ode  on  the  Passions."  Frans  Mikael 
Franzen  (1772—1847),  the  first  of  a  remarkable  line  of 
Finnish  poets  writing  in  Swedish,  also  caught  echoes  of 
the  romantic  spirit  awakening  in  England  and  Germany. 
Franzen  is  equally  famous  for  hymns  and  for  convivial 
songs;  in  both  fields  he  is  sincere,  vigorous,  and  a  com- 
petent master  of  form.  Another  hymnodist  who  helped  to 
bridge  the  chasm  between  the  older  and  the  newer  order 
is  Johan  Olof  Wallin,  whose  nobly  rhetorical  "The  Angel 
of  Death  "  is  a  sort  of  Gray's  "  Elegy  "  to  his  country- 
men. 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xxi 

The  Romantic  Impulse,  1 809-1 830 
The  political  and  social  conditions  which  concern  Swedish 
literature  from  1809  to  the  present  day  can  be  briefly  sum- 
marized. By  the  war  of  1808-9  P'inland  was  lost  to  Rus- 
sia. After  a  short  interregnum  the  succession  was  fixed 
upon  the  French  marshal  Bernadotte,  who  ascended  the 
throne  in  18 18  as  Charles  XIV.  He  and  his  successors 
have  reigned  prosperously,  with  the  cordial  support  of  both 
nobles  and  commons,  down  to  the  present  time.  The  royal 
family  have  been  not  only  generous  patrons  of  art,  but  have 
included  among  themselves  poets  and  painters  of  distinc- 
tion. Owing  to  the  conservative  character  of  the  nation, 
democracy  has  progressed  steadily  and  without  violence. 
New  ideas  have  of  course  come  in,  and  through  greater 
facilities  of  study  and  travel  Sweden  has  become  to  some 
extent  cosmopolitanized.  This,  however,  has  not  been  at 
the  expense  of  national  pride  and  a  sturdy  love  of  the  soil, 
which  have  always  been  fundamental  traits  of  all  classes  in 
the  land.  As  a  consequence,  the  art  and  literature  of  Swe- 
den from  1809  until  now  have  been  increasingly  autoch- 
thonous. 

With  the  absolutism  of  the  Gustavian  Period  passed 
away  the  ideals  and  conventions  of  polite  literature.  Ro- 
manticism was  at  first  exhibited  partly  in  the  freer  expres- 
sion of  individual  feeling,  partly  in  the  idealizing  of  Swe- 
den's legendary  past.  Then,  after  a  brief  exuberance  of 
sentiment,  realism  and  a  heightened  imagination  began 
to  replace  the  formalism  of  the  eighteenth  century.  In  the 
fusion   of  these  apparent  opposites  lies  the  greatness   of 


xxii  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

Swedish  literature,  particularly  in  the  field  of  the  lyric.  A 
firm  hold  on  the  facts  of  life  and  a  splendid  imaginative 
power  in  interpreting  them  account  for  the  fascination  ex- 
ercised by  the  poetry  of  Sweden  over  all  who  come  under 
its  influence.  But  the  poet,  conservative  like  his  brother 
the  statesman,  has  never  lost  the  feeling  of  stylistic  beauty 
as  an  end  in  itself.  He  is  a  fine  and  careful  craftsman. 
Varied  and  surprising  as  are  the  rhymes  and  meters  of  the 
Swedish  lyric,  they  are  all  such  as  may  be  easily  enjoyed  by 
the  old-fashioned  lover  of  poetry.  Though  freedom  has  in- 
creased, rhyme  and  regularity  of  meter  have  seemed  practi- 
cally indispensable.  Consequently,  poetry  in  Sweden  more 
than  in  any  other  occidental  country  belongs  to  all  classes 
of  society  as  an  active  and,  in  the  main,  harmonizing 
social  force.  From  1870  on,  the  ideas  introduced  are  dar- 
ing and  dissimilar  enough  for  the  most  advanced  thinker, 
but  at  least  there  is  neither  charlatanry  nor  obscurantism 
of  form. 

Having  attempted  a  general  characterization  of  Swedish 
literature  since  1809,  we  may  now  proceed  to  consider  the 
phases  which  came  into  evidence  before  1830.  As  we  have 
briefly  indicated.  Romanticism  first  showed  itself  in  two 
ways.  Each  of  the  phases  was  cultivated  by  a  special  group 
of  writers,  these  two  groups  being  known  respectively  as 
the  Phosphorists  and  the  Gothic  Society,  It  was  the  younger 
group  that  first  came  into  prominence. 

In  1803  Lorenzo  Hammarskold  introduced  into  Sweden 
the  ideas  of  the  German  Romanticists  Tieck,  Schelling, 
and  the  Schlegels.  This  led  to  the  formation  of  the  Aurora 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xxiii 

Society  by  Per  Daniel  Amadeus  Atterbom  and  Vilhelm 
Fredrik  Palmblad.  To  the  ridicule  of  the  Academicians  the 
young  poets  retorted  in  their  magazines  Polyfem  and  Fos- 
foros^  from  the  latter  of  which  they  were  given  the  desig- 
nation "Phosphorists."  Their  chief  canon  was  Schelling's 
dictum  that  beauty  is  the  highest  form  in  which  divinity 
reveals  itself.  In  practice  the  Phosphorists  followed  the 
same  course  as  did  many  of  the  English  Romanticists.  In 
the  first  place,  emotion  largely  took  the  place  of  mind 
as  the  motive  force  in  poetry.  This  led  in  some  degree  to 
sentimentalism,but  it  brought  about  a  much-needed  eman- 
cipation from  the  fetters  of  didacticism.  Secondly,  there 
was  a  great  search  for  remote  and  ideal  beauty.  Italian  and 
Spanish  writers  of  the  renaissance  were  sought,  Shake- 
speare came  into  new  favor,  and  mediaeval  German  poetry 
was  in  particular  demand.  As  a  result,  new  regions  were 
opened  to  poetry  and  new  poetic  forms  were  developed. 

Of  the  Phosphorists  by  far  the  most  gifted  was  At- 
terbom (1790— 1855).  The  titles  of  his  volumes:  Flowers^ 
The  Blue  Bird^  and  The  Isle  of  Happiness  indicate  the  ideal- 
istic and  allegorical  character  of  the  poetrv.  But  Atterbom 
is  no  mere  sentimentalist;  he  is  a  pure  lyrist  of  exquisitely 
airy  charm,  and  his  genius  finally  won  its  way  into  the  very 
stronghold  of  his  enemies, a  place  in  the  Academy.  Among 
those  influenced  by  the  Phosphorist  movement  were  Stag- 
nelius  and  Almqvist.  With  some  exaggeration  Stagnelius 
has  been  called  the  Swedish  Shelley;  his  characteristic 
poems,  of  a  vaguely  philosophic  and  melancholy  tinge,  are 
less  known  to-day  than  his  little  folk-idyll  "TheNecken." 


xxiv  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

But  he  had  a  true  sense  of  beauty,  and  his  early  death,  at  the 
age  of  thirty,  threw  a  romantic  glamor  over  his  name.  Alm- 
qvist,  the  leading  prose  writer  of  his  time,  wrote  a  number 
of  striking,  but  rather  fantastic  lyrics.  The  number  of  At- 
terbom's  followers  is  legion.  Their  style  is  described  with 
sympathetic  satire  by  a  much  later  poet,  Gustaf  Froding, 
in  "An  Old  Room:" 

words 

That  tell  of  love  and  Persian  birds. 

Of  nightingales  that  never  cease 

And  violets'  perfumed  sighs. 

Of  roses'  pain  and  lilies'  peace 

In  that  far  paradise. 

The  other  phase  of  early  Romanticism  was  more  virile 
and  substantial,  being  in  fact  an  expression  of  newly-awak- 
ened national  spirit.  As  the  people  came  to  have  a  greater 
share  in  the  government,  they  began  to  take  a  more  vital 
interest  in  both  the  past  and  the  present  of  their  coun- 
try. An  important  evidence  of  this  is  the  formation  of  the 
Gothic  Society  in  i8i  i  and  the  publication  of  their  maga- 
zine Iduna.  The  founder,  Erik  Gustaf  Geijer,  was  soon 
joined  by  Esaias  Tegner. 

Tegner  (1782-1846)  is  the  most  widely  known  of  Swe- 
dish poets.  He  is  chiefly  famous  for  his  epics,  of  which 
Frithiof^s  Saga  has  been  translated  into  English  a  score  of 
times.  It  is  a  romantic  story  of  legendary  days  told  in  a 
series  of  lyrical  episodes  reminding  the  English  reader  a 
little  of  Scott  and  much  more  of  Longfellow.  The  latter 
was  much  influenced  by  Tegner  and  translated  portions 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xxv 

of  Frithiof^s  Saga  and  another  of  his  narrative  poems,"  The 
Children  of  the  Lord's  Supper."  Although  Tegner  has 
great  narrative  talent,  it  may  perhaps  be  questioned  whether 
he  is  a  poet  of  the  first  order.  With  an  excellent  command 
of  form,  he  seldom  rises  to  a  high  imaginative  level.  His 
lyrics  are  extremely  varied  in  subject,  ranging  from  the 
lightest  humorous  pieces  to  his  "  Song  to  the  Sun,"  an 
attempt  at  the  cosmic.  His  "Voices  of  Peace"  and  "The 
Eternal"  are  high-minded  treatments  of  abstract  themes 
which  recall  the  style  of  Schiller.  "The  Giant"  takes  us 
back  to  Norse  mythology  with  a  meter  founded  on  old 
Teutonic  accentual  verse,  "Birds  of  Passage"  is  realistic, 
and  a  personal  note  is  struck  in  "  Farewell  to  My  Lyre." 
Geijer  resembles  his  contemporary,  but  is  less  notewor- 
thy. His  well-known  poem  "The  Viking"  is  similar  to 
Longfellow's  treatment  of  the  theme  in  "The  Skeleton  in 
Armor."  He  is  less  varied  and  more  national  in  tone  than 
Tegner.  Perhaps  his  most  attractive  poem  is  "The  Little 
Charcoal-Burner  Boy,"  the  precursor  of  Malmstrom's  ex- 
quisite lyric  "The  Sigh  of  the  Forest."  Geijer  and  Tegner 
had  many  followers.  Unlike  the  Phosphorists,  the  National 
School,  as  we  may  call  it,  has  grown  in  influence  and 
continues  to  produce  much  of  the  best  poetry  written  in 
Swedish.  This  is  due,  of  course,  to  the  fact  that  it  deals 
with  mythological  and  traditional  material  which  is  indige- 
nous to  the  soil.  There  is  an  increasing  tendency  to  choose 
subjects  from  modern  history  and  every-day  life,  and  to 
adopt  a  more  direct  style. 


xxvi  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

The  Mid-Century y  1 830-1 870 
The  period  succeeding  the  birth  of  Romanticism  was 
crowded  with  poets  of  merit,  following  variously  the  im- 
pulses of  the  Phosphorists  and  the  Gothic  Society.  There 
was,  however,  no  idealist  to  equal  Atterbom  and  no  bard 
to  celebrate  the  Viking  Age  with  the  success  of  Tegner. 
There  was  no  doubt  a  gain  in  sanity  and  naturalism,  but 
neither  of  these  virtues  is  of  prime  importance  in  the  field 
of  poetry.  There  was  likewise  an  increase  of  interest  in  the 
middle  classes,  not  often  good  subjects  for  the  lyric  muse. 
This  was  the  great  period  of  the  novel;  the  period  of 
Fredrika  Bremer  and  Emilie  Flygare-Carlen,  who  acquired 
in  prose  the  reputation  which  their  sex  had  failed  to  win 
in  verse.  Within  the  earlier  half  of  the  period  fall  the  real- 
istic stories  of  Almqvist,  within  the  latter  the  historical 
tales  of  Viktor  Rydberg,  whose  poetry  belongs  to  the  fol- 
lowing period.  The  one  great  poet  of  the  time  stands  out 
as  an  isolated  figure. 

No  Swedish  poet  has  a  reputation  more  firmly  grounded 
than  Johan  Ludvig  Runeberg  (1804— 1877).  A  native  of 
Finland,  he  grev/  up  amid  memories  of  the  valiant  though 
unsuccessful  war  for  freedom  waged  by  his  country  against 
Russia.  His  training  was  derived  partly  from  the  classics, 
but  still  more  from  the  people  and  scenery  of  his  own  land. 
As  a  result,  he  became  a  classical  realist,  in  the  same  sense 
as  Goethe  in  Hermann  und  Dorothea.  He  began  his  career 
with  a  charming  lyric  vo\\xvs\&.,Idylh  and  Epigrams ^^nA  con- 
tinued with  the  idyllic  epics,  The  Elk  Hunters^  Hanna.^  and 
Christmas  Eve.  In  Nadeschda  and  King  Fjalar  his  subjects 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xxvii 

were  more  remote  and  his  treatment  more  romantic.  These 
poems  are  superior  to  Tegner's  Frtthiof's  Saga  in  epic  sim- 
pHcity  and  naturalism.  A  classic  restraint  in  the  style  of 
Runeberg  prevents  him  from  making  the  sentimental 
appeal  of  Tegner. 

After  all,  there  is  no  test  of  poetic  greatness  so  conclu- 
sive as  the  lyric,  and  in  the  substance  of  his  lyrics  Rune- 
berg clearly  excels  his  rival.  Besides  the  early  volume  al- 
ready mentioned,  we  have  to  consider  the  most  famous  of 
all  Runeberg's  works.  The  Stories  of  Ensign  Sial^  a  series 
chiefly  of  dramatic  ballads  on  the  war  with  Russia.  In  di- 
rectness of  style  and  noble  simplicity  of  mood  these  poems 
are  beyond  praise.  They  include  the  impassioned  stanzas 
of  "Our  Land,"  the  national  hymn  of  Finland,  and  "The 
Soldier  Boy,"  which  called  forth  the  special  praise  of  Mr. 
Edmund  Gosse  for  its  "absolute  perfection."  The  great 
majority  of  the  poems  are  of  an  heroic  or  elegiac  narrative 
type,  and  it  may  be  questioned  whether  any  one  poet  has 
ever  created  a  finer  body  of  patriotic  verse.  Mr.  Gosse 
tentatively  mentions  Campbell,  Dobell,  and  Tennyson's 
"Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,"  but  he  is  probably  well 
aware  that  English  poetry  has  in  this  field  no  rival  to  the 
laureate  of  Finland.  All  the  lyrics  of  Runeberg  are  cast  in 
classic  form.  The  artistic  artlessness  of  the  style  performs 
its  office  with  a  dignity  that  is  rare  even  in  the  great  mas- 
ters. The  idyllic  and  reflective  lyrics  are  full  of  a  lucid  and 
quiet  beauty  which,  like  the  dramatic  force  of  the  ballads, 
is  entirely  sui  generis.  Runeberg  was  also  a  hymnodist,  a 


xxviii  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

critic,  and  a  dramatist  of  distinction.  What  wonder  that 
upon  his  grave  are  inscribed  his  own  lines: 

Not  with  grief  thy  memory  would  we  honor. 
Like  to  his  who  goes  and  is  forgotten. 

We  shall  pass  over  the  other  poets  of  the  mid-century 
period  rather  rapidly.  They  belong  in  general  to  tv/o  phases 
of  the  national  movement:  first,  specifically  patriotic  po- 
etry; and  secondly,  poetry  of  nature  and  peasant  life.  Both 
of  these  phases,  as  we  have  seen,  are  conspicuous  in  the 
poetry  of  Runeberg,  whose  influence  soon  became  ex- 
tensive. There  is,  of  course,  a  much  wider  divergence  of 
personality  in  this  time  of  increasing  individualism  than 
could  have  been  the  case  in  the  Gustavian  Age.  Humor 
also  began  to  play  a  greater  part,  as  if  in  anticipation  of  the 
style  of  Froding. 

Of  the  patriotic  group  may  be  mentioned  first  Karl  Vil- 
helm  August  Strandberg,  a  vigorous  poet,  author  of  the 
Swedish  national  hymn.  Here,  too,  partly  belongs  Gunnar 
Wennerberg,  though  he  is  better  known  for  his  humorous 
dialogues  in  verse.  There  is  atone  of  conviction  in  Swedish 
patriotic  poetry  which  raises  it  above  the  conventionality 
common  to  this  form.  Modernist  ideas  are  represented  by 
Oscar  Patrik  Sturzen-Becker. 

Of  the  larger  group,  the  nature  poets, thebest  areZacha- 
rias  Topelius  and  Bernhard  Elis  Malmstrom,  the  former  a 
genius  nearly,  if  not  quite,  of  the  first  order.  Topelius,  like 
Runeberg  a  native  of  Finland,  is  one  of  the  most  winsome 
and  lovable  of  poets.  His  pure  and  delicate  fancy  is  best 
shown  in  his  narrative  "The  Milky  Way."  His  sympa- 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xxix 

thy  with  nature  appears  in  "Rose-Marie"  and  song  about 
"  Little  Maia ; "  his  tenderness,  the  most  outstanding  char- 
acteristic of  his  genius,  is  at  its  best  in  "  My  Mother."  Sin- 
cere feeling  is  also  a  leading  quality  in  the  work  of  the  less 
prolific  poet,  Malmstrom,  whose  lyric,  "The  Sigh  of  the 
Forest,"  is  deservedly  one  of  the  best  known  poems  in  the 
language.  Herman  Satherberg  is  a  tuneful  lyrist,  and  Elias 
Sehlstedt  has  a  quaintly  personal  turn  of  mind.  Two  hu- 
morous spirits  who  cannot  otherwise  be  classified  are  the 
satirist,  Wilhelm  von  Braun,  and  the  genial  dialect  poet, 
F.  A.  Dahlgren. 

T!he  Realistic  Impulse^  1 870-1 900 
After  the  publication  of  77^1?  Stories  of  Ensign  Stdl  in  i860' 
there  was  a  decided  ebb  in  Swedish  poetry,  no  new  names 
of  significance  appearing  for  nearly  a  decade.  Poetry  had 
been  becoming  too"  pleasant,"  it  held  no  clear-cut  thought, 
had  no  ring  in  its  verse  music.  Observation  there  was,  but 
little  vision;  sentiment,  but  no  passion.  This  stagnation 
was  broken  by  two  successive  waves,  which  came  about 
the  years  1870  and  i8go.  Thus  from  1870  to  1900  the 
Swedish  lyric  attained  its  highest  level,  the  first  impulse 
containing  two  poets  of  genius,  and  the  second  three. 

The  most  important  phase  of  the  new  poetic  movement 
was  a  more  positive  bent  towards  realism,  but  the  first 
author  to  be  considered  is  not  wholly  or  even  principally 
a  realist.  Viktor  Rydberg  (i 828-1 895)  was  of  humble 
extraction.  He  had  a  hard  struggle  to  satisfy  the  thirst  for 
learning  which  was  a  leading  passion  of  his  life,  but  he 


XXX  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

finally  attained  distinction  in  several  fields  of  scholarship. 
His  first  creative  literary  work  was  done  in  the  historical 
novel,  and  it  was  not  until  late  in  life  that  he  found  the 
finest  expression  of  his  genius  in  lyric  poetry. 

Rydberg  is  primarily  a  classic  idealist;  he  treats  the  great 
questions  of  humanity  with  a  clearness  and  loftiness  of 
purpose  which  reminds  us  of  Matthew  Arnold.  We  can- 
not escape  the  feeling  that  Rydberg  is  a  greater  poet  than 
Arnold;  less  bookish,  less  cold,  less  mournfully  aloof.  It 
has  been  said  with  much  truth  by  a  recent  critic,  Mrs. 
A.  B.  Fries,  that  Rydberg  has  the  philosophy  of  Emerson, 
the  optimism  of  Browning,  and  the  music  of  Shelley.  He 
has  a  singularly  noble  philosophy  of  life,  but  somehow 
he  has  also  the  ability  to  bring  his  inspiration  close  to  the 
general  mind.  His  literary  sources  were  many.  He  was 
a  classicist  and  had  a  deep  knowledge  of  the  Bible;  he 
made  a  fine  translation  of  Goethe's  Faust^  and  was  notably 
affected  by  the  lyrical  music  of  Poe,  whose  "Raven"  he 
rendered  successfully  into  Swedish  verse.  Then,  too,  there 
is  a  manliness  in  Rydberg's  voice  which  makes  the  notes 
carry.  His  ideas  are  not  the  shadows  of  others,  they  are  his 
own  by  strong  conviction.  All  of  this  is  imparted  in  a  style 
that  is  well-nigh  perfect  in  its  appropriateness  and  finished 
beauty.  To  the  lover  of  "poetical  poetry"  Rvdberg  must 
rank  with  the  greatest  names  of  the  century,  but  he  is 
also  a  master  of  simpler  themes.  In  such  poems  as  "The 
House-Goblin"  {Tojnten^  and  "The  Bathing  Children" 
he  gives  us  intimate  pictures  of  Swedish  country  life,  which 
to  some  will  be  worth  more  than  all  of  his  more  abstract  and 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xxxi 

symbolic  pieces.  In  the  originality  and  forcefulness  of  his 
imagery  Rydberg  marks  an  important  advance  in  Swedish 
poetry. 

The  other  leader  in  the  revival  of  poetry  was  a  man  of 
opposite  extraction  and  training.  Count  Carl  Snoilsky 
(1841-1903)  was  a  nobleman  of  Polish  descent.  Exiled 
from  the  Swedish  court  for  a  social  misdemeanor,  he  lived 
most  of  his  life  abroad  as  an  epicurean  lover  of  beauty. 
The  first-fruits  of  his  travels  was  a  very  brilliant  volume 
of  poems  descriptive  of  the  author's  life  in  Italy,  which  ap- 
peared in  i86g.The  spirit  and  glowing  color  of  the  verse 
took  Sweden  by  storm.  Not  since  Goethe  had  a  North- 
ern writer  brought  so  vividly  before  his  people  the  dreamy 
beauty  of  the  Mediterranean  and  the  vista  of  classic  civ- 
ilization. Besides  the  autobiographical  pieces,  this  volume 
contains  some  of  the  most  finished  sonnets  in  Swedish. 
The  keynote  of  the  whole  is  struck  in  a  stanza  of  the 
"Introductory  Song:" 

No  vapid  fictions  of  dream  I  bring  you. 

No  empty  visions  for  your  behoof; 
The  world  of  beauty  I  fain  would  sing  you 

My  own  five  senses  have  put  to  proof. 

Snoilsky  thus  comes  out  as  a  realist  against  sentimentalism. 
But  even  in  this  early  volume  we  find  a  love  of  de- 
mocracy which  was  to  prevail  over  that  of  mere  sensuous 
beauty  in  the  poet's  development.  Snoilsky  discovers  more 
inspiration  in  Garibaldi  than  in  the  study  of  archaeology. 
In  later  poems  hestronglyadvocatesapoeticbeauty  that  will 
descend  from  its  pedestal  and  minister  to  thirsty  multitudes 


xxxii  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

of  common  folk  (see  "  The  Porcelain  Factory  "  and  "  Aph- 
rodite and  the  Knife-Grinder").  There  are  also  many  good 
reflective  lyrics  in  the  volumes  that  appeared  after  1880. 
Snoilsky  yields  to  Rydberg  in  symmetry  of  proportion,  but 
rivals  him  in  finely  wrought  detail.  A  long  collection  of 
ballads  from  Swedish  history  is,  to  the  foreigner  at  least, 
decidedly  less  effective,  especially  when  compared  with  the 
work  of  Runeberg.  In  1890  Snoilsky  was  restored  to  favor 
and  returned  to  his  native  land,  and  this  event  helped  to 
kindle  a  new  enthusiasm  in  Swedish  poetry.  Though  not  so 
distinctive  a  master  as  Rydberg,  Snoilsky  exercised  a  more 
immediate  influence  on  younger  poets  by  the  contagious 
fervor  of  his  style. 

Among  the  contemporaries  of  Rydberg  and  Snoilsky 
should  be  mentioned,  in  patriotic  verse.  King  Oscar  II  and 
Edvard  Backstrom.  Further,  two  poets  of  unusual  and  per- 
vasive personality  were  the  Jewish  painter,  Ernst  Joseph- 
son,  and  the  reactionary,  Carl  David  af  Wirsen.  Albert 
Teodor  Gellerstedt  is  the  greatest  of  Swedish  lyrists  in  the 
sententious  epigram.  Of  August  Strindberg  (1849— 191 2), 
the  much  misunderstood  ultra-realist,  we  can  only  pause  to 
say  that  his  few  lyrics,  though  not  of  first-rate  importance 
in  his  work  as  a  whole, are  yet  characteristic  of  his  vigorous 
genius.  Albert  Ulrik  Baath  (i 853-191 2),  another  pioneer 
realist,  delights  in  sympathetic  pictures  of  plain  folk  in 
every-day  life. 

Just  when  the  new  wave  of  poetic  impulse  seemed  to  have 
reached  its  height,  it  was  overtaken  and  overtopped  by 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xxxiii 

another.  By  this  time  the  realistic  tendency  of  the  period 
had  become  clearly  marked,  though  it  was  a  realism  as  often 
subjective  as  objective.  Realism,  if  one  may  venture  a  new 
definition,  is  a  resolute  facing  of  facts,  whether  they  be 
those  of  the  outer  world  or  of  the  inner  consciousness.  No 
antagonism  exists  between  realism  and  imagination;  there 
is  romantic  imagination,  such  as  in  The  Idylls  of  the  King^ 
on  the  one  hand;  and  realistic  imagination,  such  as  in  the 
Barrack-Room  Ballads^  on  the  other.  The  prime  requisite 
of  the  realist  is  courage;  his  danger  lies  in  a  certain  crudity 
and  hardness  of  tone. 

About  1890  appeared  in  Swedish  literature  —  to  quote 
Mr.  Edmund  Gosse — "three  very  great  lyrical  artists: 
Eroding,  Levertin,  and  Heidenstam."  As  an  interpreter  of 
the  peasant,  not  even  Burns  is  superior  to  Gustaf  Eroding 
(i860— 191 1).  Born  of  a  middle-class  family  in  the  pastoral 
region  of  Vermland,  he  was  ideally  fitted  to  interpret  the 
boisterous  humor  and  the  stark  tragedy  of  this  province. 
His  first  volume,  Guitar  and  j^ccordion,  had  a  success  unpre- 
cedented in  Swedish  literature.  The  daring,  the  forceful- 
ness,  the  magic  of  his  verse  are  capable  of  rendenng  every 
phase  of  the  rough  life  he  shared.  Scenes  of  ranting  merri- 
ment, tales  of  grim  cruelty,  exquisite  nature  pictures,  pas- 
sagesof  broad  humor — all  these  aregiven  with  a  directness 
and  spontaneity  of  style  which  is  no  less  than  astounding. 

Other  volumes  followed  quickly  up  to  1898  when,  as 
the  result  of  dissipation,  the  poet's  mind  broke  down  com- 
pletely. After  a  long  period  in  the  hospital,  Eroding  was 
restored  to  reason,  but  he  never  recovered  his  early  power. 


xxxiv  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

Yet  the  work  of  his  brief  creative  period  shows  a  wide 
range.  Besides  his  Vermland  lyrics,  he  has  lively  sketches 
of  city  life;  strange  self-revelations,  whimsical  and  pa- 
thetic; and  a  large  number  of  purely  ideal  and  imaginative 
poems.  If  his  first  volume  is  like  Burns,  his  others  display 
a  passionate  and  ironic  personality  similar  to  that  of  Heine. 
Froding  had  a  university  training  and  turned  his  wide  read- 
ing to  the  best  account.  Of  his  Swedish  predecessors  he  is 
most  like  Bellman,  the  differences  in  their  poetry  being 
more  those  of  scene  than  of  temperament.  Froding,  a  true 
modern,  takes  the  ills  of  life  more  to  heart;  he  exhibits  the 
weltschmer-z  in  its  most  acute  forms,  isolation  and  despair. 
With  these  comes  a  deeper  sympathy  for  his  suffering 
fellow-mortals,  a  sympathy  that  extends  even  to  so  grew- 
some  a  being  as  the  troll  of  Norse  mythology.  His  religious 
creed  is  Universalism,  Still,  in  general.  Bellman's  joy  of 
life,  and  above  all  his  bewildering  mastery  of  form,  are 
present  undiminished  in  the  poetry  of  Froding. 

Oscar  Levertin  (1862— i9o6)is  a  poet  of  some  intensity, 
but  otherwise  is  totally  unlike  Froding.  Of  Spanish-Jewish 
descent,  he  inherited  the  spiritual  mysticism  and  love  of 
beauty  that  characterize  the  Jew  in  every  land.  Among 
Swedish  poets  his  style  is  quite  by  itself,  recalling  that  of 
Rossetti.  Like  Rossetti  he  shows  an  inclination  both  for 
the  ethereal  and  for  the  sensual.  His  precarious  health  im- 
parted a  quality  of  morbidness  to  his  poetry.  His  lyrics  are 
all  personal  and  nearly  all  symbolic.  He  is  the  typical  poet 
of  the  ivory  tower,  with  a  tenuous  detachment  of  imagina- 
tion that  makes  him  seem  to  move  in  a  rarefied  atmos- 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xxxv 

phere  of  beauty.  The  finest  critic  in  Swedish  literature,  he 
exhibits  a  subtle  and  delicate  craftsmanship  that  gives  a 
unique  delight  to  his  admirers.  In  an  age  of  individualism 
such  figures  as  those  of  Froding  and  Levertin,  of  Kipling 
and  Francis  Thompson,  will  often  be  found  side  by  side. 
After  all,  as  has  been  already  suggested,  a  very  genuine 
courage  is  required  to  be  true  in  portraying  one's  inner  self, 
and  there  is  a  spiritual  realism  in  such  poets  as  Levertin 
and  Thompson  that  is  more  akin  to  objective  realism  than 
to  the  romantic  sentiment  of  a  Tegner  or  a  Tennyson. 

Verner  von  Heidenstam,  recipient  of  the  Nobel  Prize 
for  Literature  in  191 6,  yields  to  neither  of  his  colleagues 
in  originality  or  importance.  Oldest  of  the  triumvirate  (he 
was  born  in  1859),  ^^  '^  still  at  the  height  of  his  powers. 
His  literary  career  has  been  singularly  like  that  of  Snoilsky. 
Highly  favored  by  birth  and  education,  he  spent  his  early 
manhood  in  travel,  of  which  his  first  volume,  Pilgrimage 
and  Wander-Tears^  is  the  imaginative  record.  This  book 
discloses  at  once  the  earnestness  and  intellectual  nobility 
of  the  author.  The  subject-matter  is  personal,  but  with  a 
passion  for  truth  rather  than,  as  in  the  case  of  Levertin,  for 
beauty.  The  style  is  abrupt,  involved,  and  reserved;  rather 
difficult,  and  very  individual.  The  poet's  peculiar  gift  is  his 
ability  to  penetrate  beneath  the  surface  of  things  to  their 
spiritual  reality.  Despite  its  complexity,  the  volume  was 
enthusiastically  received. 

Like  Snoilsky,  Heidenstam  changed  from  an  exotic  to 
a  national  tone.  In  his  travels  he  learned  to  value  rightly 
the  scenes  of  his  birth,  and  his  two  later  volumes  of  lyrics 


xxxvi  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

are  saturated  with  Sweden.  His  themes  continue  to  be  often 
introspective  and  gloomy,  but  his  maturity  gives  them  a 
wider  apphcation.  His  best-known  poems  are  those  that 
deal  with  his  larger  self,  namely,  his  native  land.  In  such 
lyrics  as  "A  Day,"  "Invocation  and  Promise,"  and  "Swe- 
den "  he  sends  forth  clarion  notes  to  his  fellow-country- 
men, bidding  them  revive  the  ancient  glory  of  their  land  and 
raise  Sweden  to  a  new  eminence  in  the  realm  "  of  science 
and  art  and  letters."  Without  loss  of  intensity,  his  style  has 
attained  to  greater  breadth  and  power.  Famous  as  Heiden- 
stam  has  become  in  prose  with  his  novels  and  historical 
sketches,  it  is  chiefly  through  his  lyrics  that  he  has  come 
to  mean  Sweden  in  the  hearts  of  his  five  and  a  half  million 
compatriots. 

Heidenstam  has  been  included  with  a  past  generation 
because  his  influence  began  at  the  same  time  as  that  of 
Froding  and  Levertin,  and  two  of  his  three  poetical  vol- 
umes appeared  in  the  last  century.  Other  living  lyrists  will 
be  treated  in  the  following  division.  Of  deceased  writers 
we  must  note  the  Finn,  Karl  August  Tavaststjerna,  for  his 
quality  of  deep  and  quiet  melancholy;  and  Tor  Hedberg, 
dramatist  and  reflective  poet. 

'The  Poetry  of  To-Day,  1 900-1 91 5 
It  is  proverbially  difficult  to  judge  a  rising  generation, 
but  certainly  Swedish  poetry  to-day  is  in  a  very  active  and 
healthy  condition.  It  would  seem  that  the  poets  of  the 
twentieth  century  may  be  divided  pretty  clearly  into  three 
classes:  namely,  (i)  nature  poets,  (2)  socialist  poets,  and 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xxxvii 

(3)  esthetes.  Of  these  the  first  group  is  by  far  the  most  ex- 
tensive,and  includes  Erik  Axel  Karlfeldt,  the  only  one  who 
thus  far  has  attained  eminence.  The  socialist  group,  though 
small,  is  well  defined  in  purpose  and  increasing  in  strength. 
The  esthetes  are  mostly  under  the  influence  of  such  mod- 
erns as  Verlaine,  Oscar  Wilde,  and  Arthur  Symons.  They 
despise  the  vulgar  world  and  would  live  in  the  timeless 
realm  of  art.  Some  are  mystics,  some  voluptuaries,  each  of 
course  going  his  own  way.  They  are  enterprising  and  have 
produced  much  of  beauty.  Oddly  enough,  as  some  may 
think,  with  much  intelligent  experimentation  in  form,  they 
have  done  almost  nothing  in  free  verse. 

The  only  living  poet  to  vie  with  Heidenstam  in  pres- 
ent-day popularity  is  Karlfeldt.  He  was  born  in  1864  in 
Dalecarlia,  the  heart  of  the  Swedish  peasant  district.  A  pro- 
duct of  the  soil,  his  poetry  strikes  its  roots  deep  in  the  tradi- 
tions of  sturdy,  honest  country-folk.  It  abounds  in  homely 
pride  of  its  origin,  in  love  of  nature  and  wild  animals,  in 
kindly  humor,  and  in  true  piety  both  in  the  Latin  and  the 
Christian  sense.  The  personal  lyrics  show  a  lovable  tem- 
perament, full  of  reverence  for  the  simple  verities  of  life. 
The  humor  lies  in  a  recognition  of  the  prejudices  and  ob- 
tuseness  of  the  peasant, and  of  the  poet's  own  unfitness  for 
a  Parnassus  of  the  conventional  sort.  Without  any  ostenta- 
tion, the  style  is  thoroughly  adequate  and  has  felicity  and 
grace  of  a  high  order.  Froding  and  Heidenstam  write  about 
the  peasantry;  the  lyrics  of  Karlfeldt  come  straight  from 
the  peasant  heart. 

Among  the  other  nature  poets,  the  best  known  is  Daniel 


xxxviii  INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH 

Fallstr6m,a  prolific  rhyme-smith  who  treats  many  subjects 
with  observant  sympathy.  More  winsome  is  Oscar  Stjerne, 
whose  poems  of  childhood  have  a  tenderness  like  those  of 
Topelius.  Love  of  home  is  well  expressed  by  Ola  Hans- 
son  and  Sten  Granlund.  K.  A.  Melin  writes  musical  lyrics 
of  the  seashore.  K.  E.  Forsslund  has  more  vigor  and  a  de- 
cided leaning  toward  socialism. 

We  may  treat  together  the  classes  of  political  and  es- 
thetic modernists.  The  leader  of  the  socialists  is  K.  G.  Os- 
sian-Nilsson,  a  poet  whose  style  has  the  strength  of  glow- 
ing conviction.  He  celebrates  the  tyrant  type,  which  alone 
can  call  forth  the  virtue  of  the  masses  to  oppose  it.  His 
"Bismarck"  contains  much  good  thinking  and  good  writ- 
ing. Of  the  esthetes  the  most  notable  is  the  academician, 
Per  Hallstrom,  a  finished  stylist  in  the  drama,  in  prose, 
and  in  verse.  The  most  fiery  is  the  Finn,  Bertel  Gripen- 
berg,  a  veritable  twentieth  century  Heine,  who  promises 
to  go  far.  Among  the  more  graceful  and  mystical  figures  are 
Anders  Osterling,  Bo  Bergman,  H.  Soderberg,  and  Benil 
Malmberg.  None  of  these  has  any  peculiarly  Swedish  char- 
acteristic, though  each  has  merit  of  a  cosmopolitan  sort, 
and  all  have  sacrificed  the  Antaeus-like  strength  of  contact 
with  their  native  earth  for  delicacy  of  sentiment  and  beauty 
of  form. 

General  Summary 
In  the   foregoing    sketch   we  have  endeavored   to  trace 
broadly  the  development  of  the  Swedish  lyric  and  to  charac- 
terize the  chief  poets.  This  attempt  has  been  unsuccessful 
if  it  has  failed  to  indicate  that  the  chief  quality  of  Swedish 


INTRODUCTORY  SKETCH  xxxix 

poetry  is  its  nationality.  As  the  great  painters,  Liljefors, 
Zorn,  Larsson,  and  Fjaestad,  have  set  forth  the  beauties 
of  Swedish  landscape  and  peasant  life,  so  have  the  great 
lyrists  represented  them  in  verse.  Truth  and  strength  are 
equally  inherent  in  both  phases  of  artistic  expression.  As 
the  aforesaid  painters  have  gone  far  beyond  mere  photo- 
graphic verisimilitude,  so  have  the  lyrists  interpreted  their 
land  with  daring  imagination  and  finished  craftsmanship. 
It  may  very  properly  be  asked  what  rank  the  lyric  poetry 
of  Sweden  should  take  in  respect  to  that  of  other  litera- 
tures. To  this  one  ventures  to  reply  that  in  quality  it  is  infe- 
rior to  none,  and  in  richness  it  is  not  far  behind  the  best 
of  any  nation  during  a  similar  period  of  time.  This  opinion 
is  based  upon  careful  study  and  upon  comparison  with  the 
judgment  of  many  critics  well  versed  in  European  litera- 
ture of  all  ages.  Such  an  opinion  will  doubtless  appear  par- 
tial to  those  who  are  approaching  the  subject  for  the  first 
time,  but  a  similar  statement  as  to  the  merits  of  the  Rus- 
sian novel  would  have  been  received  a  generation  ago  with 
similar  incredulity.  For  the  present  the  Swedish  Muse  must 
abide  the  test  of  time  and  of  closer  scrutinv.  Her  admirers 
dare  to  hope  that  before  long  the  names  of  Bellman,  Rune- 
berg,  Rydberg,  Eroding,  and  Heidenstam  —  possibly  also 
of  Tegner,  Topelius,  Snoilsky,  Levertin,  and  Karlfeldt  — 
will  be  generally  ranked  with  those  of  the  greatest  mas- 
ters in  the  domain  of  lyric  poetry. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH 
LYRICS 


Karl  Mikael  Bellman,  1740-1795 

TO  OLD  MOVITZ,  ILL  WITH 
CONSUMPTION 

AN    ELEGY 

JiLmpty  your  glass!  —  Behold  where  Death  is  waiting, 
Sharp'ning  his  sword  while  standing  at  your  door! 
Be  not  afraid;  he  holds  ajar  the  grating, 
Then  shuts  the  tomb  and  leaves  it  as  before. 
Movitz,  consumption  may  spare  you  a  year,  man,  .  .  . 

Be  of  good  cheer,  man. 
Tune  up  the  chords  and  sing  of  youth  once  more! 

Thin  is  your  cheek,  and  yellow-pale  its  hue  is. 
Sunken  your  chest,  your  shoulders  bent  —  too  bad! 
Let's  see  your  hand  —  each  vein  all  swelled  and  blue  is, 
Flabby  and  moist,  as  if  a  bath  you  'd  had: 
Limp  and  perspiring  your  hand  is,  old  fellow,  .  .  . 

Come,  strike  your  'cello, 
Pour  out  the  bottle,  sing  and  drink,  be  glad! 

You  're  dying  fast  —  so  deep  your  cough  is  sounding: 
Hollow  it  rings;  all  's  emptiness  within. 
White  is  your  tongue,  your  frightened  heart  is  pounding, 
Soft  as  a  sponge  are  muscles,  thews,  and  skin. 
Breathe  —  Lord!  the  fumes  that  come  out  of  your  throt- 
tle ..  . 


4  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Hand  me  the  bottle! 
Sing  of  god  Bacchus!  Here's  your  health!  Begin! 

Out  of  this  flask  your  death  by  drops  is  flowing 
All  unobserved,  as  laugh  and  song  go  by. 
Trust  me,  a  troop  of  maggots  fiercely  glowing 
Pours  from  yon  glass  that  now  you  tilt  on  high. 
You  are  consumed.  Into  tears  you  are  turning, 

Entrails  are  burning. 
Can  you  still  pledge  me  one  more  health?  "Ay,  ay!" 

Well,  then,  your  health!  For  Bacchus  bids  farewell  now, 
From  Venus'  throne  receive  your  last  adieu. 
Fondly  for  her  the  tide  of  blood  may  swell  now; 
Slight  though  it  be,  it  warms  your  body  through. 
Sing,  read,  forget,  think,  or  tearfully  ponder,  .  .  . 

What,  are  you  fonder 
Still  of  your  liquor?  Die?  No.  Here  's  to  you! 

FROM    "FREDMAn's   EPISTLES,"  NUMBER    3O 


CONCERNING  MOLLBERG'S  PARADE   TO 
CORPORAL  BOMAN'S  GRAVE 

Out  of  the  way,  there!  —  in  plumes  arrayed  the  provost 

flashes. 
Swinging  his  gold  axe,  he  makes  a  road  to  pass. 
(Tamborine — Ching,   chingty,   ching,  ching!)   The   fifer 

proud  with  small  moustaches. 
Plump-cheeked  and  blooming,  takes  out  his  fife  of  brass. 


KARL  MIKAEL  BELLMAN  5 

Drum  starts  a-rumbling; 

Mollberg  leads  the  mourners'  band, 

Shouting  and  mumbling, 

Then  calls  out,  "Stand!" 

See  yonder  fool  there,  that  lunatic  with  arms  a-swinging! 
He  twirls  a  drum-stick  and  thumps  it  on  a  hide. 
(Ching,  chingty,  ching,  ching!)  Two  cymbals  here  an- 
other 's  dinging. 
One  toots  a  French  horn  with  cheeks  inflated  wide. 
One  goes  and  hammers 
With  a  pan-hoop  on  a  bar, 
His  frightful  clamors 
Resound  afar. 

Mollberg,  your  servant!  —  But  see  how  bow-legged  he  is 

walking, 
Piously  duck-like  and  smit  with  tearful  gloom! 
(Ching,  chingty,  ching,  ching!)  And  eagerly  behind  him 

stalking, 
Lejon  and  Lustig  and  Lax  and  Dunderbom. 
Tucks  up  his  coat  then. 
Glances  at  his  belt  so  fine. 

Clears  out  his  throat  then: 
"Stand!  Straighten  line!" 

Nod  back  to  Mollberg,  my  lady,  I  would  be  advising. 
See!  he  salutes  you  and  grins  with  jesting  air. 
(Ching,chingty, ching, ching!)  In  time  upon  his  heels  he  's 
rising  i 


6  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

"One,  two!  and  one, two!  —  keep  time — together  there!" 
My  what  a  bearing. 
New  white  boots  and  splendid  rig! 
Crape  band  he  's  wearing 
And  bob-tail  wig. 

See  Dalberg's  Kajsa,  she  's  standing  at  the  window  crying. 

Timid  and  squint-eyed,  in  skirt  of  sable  clad! 

(Ching,  chingty,  ching,  ching!)  A  harp  is  from  the  alley 

sighing. 
While  plays  the  fiddle  and  laughs  a  soldier  lad. 
Veiled,  with  apparel 
Like  a  nun,  the  widow  stands, 
Leans  on  a  barrel 
With  book  in  hands. 

Moves  the  procession.  "Why,  who  is  dead  here  in  the 

alley?" 
"Corporal  Boman,  the  dropsy  laid  him  low." 
(Ching,  chingty,  ching,  ching!)  See  Wingmark  mid  the 

friends  that  rally. 
Wig,  black  rosette,  and  a  handkerchief  of  snow! 
There  in  the  lead  he 
Goes  with  Bergstrom,  then  not  least 
Comes  tapster  Ede, 
And  next  the  priest! 

There  's  organ-blower  and  tower-man  amid  the  tangle, 
Mine  host  from  Sodom,  my  landlord  from  The  Hole. 


KARL   MIKAEL  BELLMAN  7 

(Ching,  chingty,  ching,  ching!)  Play  up  there,  hit  the  shrill 

triangle! 
Thump  on  the  sheep-skin  the  drummer  gives  a  roll. 
Bleared  sexton  shares  too 
Place  amid  the  mourners'  band, 
Keeps  time  and  bears  too 
His  spade  in  hand! 

Corporal  Boman  has  cast  his  sword  and  sheath  away  now. 
"Ay,  he  is  dead,  sure."  "Is  dead  —  unhappy  fate!" 
(Ching,  chingty,  ching,  ching!)  'T  was  end  of  March,  I 

mind  the  day  now. 
When  last  he  wet  his  moustaches  at  Brown  Gate." 
Safe  here  is  no  man  — 
For  what  is  our  life  ?  A  breath. 
Thine  ashes,  Boman, 
We  hail  in  death. 

Hey!  What  the  devil!  Get  bac*k  in  line,  you're  all  astray 

there ! 
Right-about!  Shoulder  arms!  Steady,  Number  Two! 
(Ching,  chingty,  ching,  ching!)  Present  arms  I   Let  the 

music  play  there! 
In  air  take  aim!  Fire!  —  Ground  arms,  you  donkey,  you! 
In  Bacchus'  region 
Boman's  praise  shall  echo  loud  — 
Thanks,  gallant  legion. 
We've  done  him  proud! 

FROM    "FREDMAn's   EI'ISTLES,"   NUMBER     38 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

OF  FISHING 

Up,  Amaryllis!  Wake,  little  sweeting! 

Clouds  are  all  fleeting, 

Cool  the  air. 

See  how  the  glowing 

Rainbow,  its  flowing 

Colors  bestowing. 

Makes  all  fair. 
Amaryllis,  truly  I  assure  thee, 
Peace  on  Neptune's  bosom  I  'II  secure  thee. 
Let  the  god  of  sleep  no  longer  lure  thee. 
Let  him  no  more  overmaster  thee  there! 

Let 's  go  a-fishing — nets  are  all  spread  now — 

Mope  not  in  bed  now, 

Quickly  rise! 

Come  thou,  all  bodiced, 

Kirtled  so  modest; 

Fish  of  the  oddest 

Be  our  prize! 
Amaryllis,  little  one,  awaken, — 
Lacking  thee,  of  joy  I  'm  quite  forsaken; 
From  our  boat  the  spray  will  soon  be  shaken. 
As  mid  the  dolphins  and  sirens  it  flies. 

Bring  rods  and  lines,  and  spoon  for  our  trolling! 
Up  the  sun  's  rolling  — 
Hasten  thee! 


KARL  MIKAEL  BELLMAN  9 

Sweet,  let  us  revel, 

Think  thou  no  evil. 

Say  no  uncivil 

Nay  to  me! 
Let  us  sail  into  the  cove  so  shallow. 
Or  to  yonder  sound  thy  love  did  hallow. 
Erst,  when  at  my  fortune  that  poor  fellow 
Thyrsis  was  angry  as  angry  could  be. 

Come,  then,  embark  and  sing  with  me  sweetly ! 

Love  rules  completely 

In  our  breast. 

Winds  that  would  harm  us 

Cannot  alarm  us. 

Love  still  can  charm  us. 

Make  us  blest. 
Happy  on  the  ocean's  fretful  billow, 
As  within  thine  arms  my  head  I  pillow. 
Unto  death  my  soul  thy  soul  would  follow  .  .  . 
Sing,  O  ye  sirens,  reecho  the  rest ! 

FROM    ♦♦  FREDMAn's   SONGS,"  NUMBER    3  I 


OF  MADAME  BERGSTROM'S  PORTRAIT  AT 
THE  INN  OF  LILYA  IN  TORSHALLA 

JH.USHED  the  storm  that  raged  at  night. 
And  the  stars  with  paling  light 

/More  and  more  give  token 
Dawn  by  now  has  broken. 


lo  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Clouds  are  streaming, 

Sunlight  beaming, 
On  the  mist  and  smoke  is  gleaming. 
Breezes  blowing  soft  and  gay 
Rattle  windows  with  their  play^ 
Maples,  aspens  rustle, 
Roaring  fountains  bustle. 

Black-cock  singeth. 

Peasant  springeth, 
Harness  on  his  horse  he  flingeth. 

Fire  now  skips. 

Flutters  and  licks 

Brushwood  and  chips. 

Grasses  and  sticks. 
Porridge  cooks  on  ruddy  cinder. 
Now  with  locks  awry 
Cotter  on  the  sly 
Feels  about  for  pipe  and  tinder; 
And  a  Dalesman  lone. 
Leaning  on  a  stone, 
To  the  shovel  sets  his  foot. 

Now  the  landlord  dons  a  boot. 
Cleans  his  brandy-still  from  soot, 
Holds  his  pint-pot,  laughing. 
In  his  doorway  quaffing; 

While  he  jokes  there. 
Father  smokes  there. 
Heroes  they  amid  the  folks  there. 


KARL  MIKAEL  BELLMAN  ii 

Dame  in  wagon  by  the  gate 
With  her  hand  upholds  her  pate, 
Back  and  forward  swaying, 
Nods,  in  dreamland  straying. 

Sunlight  smarts  then. 

Dame  she  starts  then, 
Sips  a  glass  as  she  departs  then. 

Wheels  in  the  mill 

Start  on  their  round. 

Hark!  through  the  still 

Morn  comes  the  sound 
Of  the  first  blows  from  the  smithy. 
Blacksmith,  tall  and  spare, 
To  the  waist  all  bare, 
Red  tongs  held  with  fore-arm  pithy, 
'Twixt  the  forge  and  sand. 
Bellows  in  one  hand, 
Singeth  now  his  morning  prayer. 

Winds  are  romping  fresh  and  fair, 
Seeds  and  plants  and  flow'rets  rare 
Open  sheath  and  petal. 
Smile  where  dewdrops  settle. 

Dawn,  all-splendid, 

Comes  attended 
By  delight  with  zephyrs  blended, 
Forest  glimmers  darkly  blue. 
Hills  and  mountains  rise  in  view; 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Lambs  and  heifers  roam  there, 
Lads  and  lasses  come  there. 

Loud  they  hollo 

As  they  follow, 
Herding  all  the  flocks  that  wallow. 

Larks  in  the  sky 

Wing  the  cool  air, 

Roosters  near  by 

Flap  wings  and  blare; 
All  of  Nature  turns  to  duty. 
Or  as  it  awakes 
Glow  and  glory  takes.  .  .  . 
And  to  treasure  all  the  beauty 
Movitz  now  gets  up, 
Grabs  his  color-cup. 
Sets  his  canvas  on  his  knee. 

Ha!  't  is  Madame  Bergstrom  —  see!  — 
What  a  bonnet!  Glory  be! 
With  a  bosom  nosegay, 
Pug  on  arm,  she  goes  gay. 

Ear-rings  jolly. 

Parasol,  i' 
Faith — Poor  Movitz  and  his  folly! 
Sure  I  '11  die  with  laughing  at 
Her  fop  son  with  shepherd  hat. 
Fine  as  anybody; 
Beauty-patch,  the  noddy! 


KARL  MIKAEL  BELLMAN  13 

Much  to  brag  on .' 

See  the  sag  pn 
Her  big  double  chin,  the  dragon! 

Bosom  tight-laced 

Juts  from  her  frame — 

My  what  a  chaste 

Inn-keeper's  dame 
On  your  canvas  you've  inflicted! 
Only  will  you  say 
Why  she  sits,  I  pray. 
With  a  bird  on  wrist  depicted? 
"Ay,  the  reason  's  this, 
Bergstrom's  wife  it  is; 
He  would  take  the  truth  amiss." 

FROM    "FREDMAn's   EPISTLES,"    NUMBER    39 


A  NOTA  BENE 

When  I  have  a  flask  well  laden- 
Nota  bene,  with  good  wine, 
And  thereto  a  pretty  maiden  — 
Nota  bene,  who  is  mine, — 
Joy  have  I  in  fullest  dower — 
Nota  bene,  for  an  hour. 

Gay  the  time  that  we  inherit  — 
Nota  bene,  not  all  good: 
Blows  are  oft  rewards  of  merit. 
Enemies  desire  our  blood. 


14  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Many  think  in  bliss  to  dwell  — 
Nota  bene,  bagatelle! 

Go  your  way,  life,  never  falter! 
Stop,  though — nota  bene,  there: 
Age  must  never  seek  to  alter 
To  a  witch  my  sweetheart  fair. 
Wine  and  love  exalt  me  high  — 
Nota  bene,  till  I  die. 

FROM    "FREDMAn's   SONGS,"   NUMBER    56 


OF  HAGA 

OUTTERFLiES  to  Haga  faring, 
When  the  frosts  and  fogs  are  spent, 
Find  the  woods  their  home  preparing, 
Flower-enwrought  their  pleasure-tent. 
Insects  from  their  w'inter  trances 
Newly  wakened  by  the  sun 
O'er  the  marsh  hold  festal  dances 
And  along  the  dock-leaves  run. 

Haga,  on  thy  bosom  dozes 
Many  a  plot  of  verdure  brave, 
And  the  snowy  swan  reposes 
Proudly  on  thy  rippling  wave. 
In  the  woods  a  distant  clamor 
Comes  reechoed  faint  and  fine: 


KARL  MIKAEL  BELLMAN  15 

From  the  quarry  sounds  the  hammer, 
Axes  ring  mid  birch  and  pine. 

See  the  little  naiads  flashing; 
Golden  horns  they  lift  in  air! 
Cool  cascades  are  blithely  dashing 
O'er  the  heights  of  Solna  fair. 
Statues  greet  the  eyes  that  gaze  there 
Down  the  arching  forest  aisles; 
Wheels  go  by,  a  dust  they  raise  there  — 
Kindly  then  the  peasant  smiles. 

Ah,  what  joy  beyond  repeating 
Through  that  lovely  park  to  rove, 
To  receive  the  fair  one's  greeting 
While  a  monarch's  eyes  approve! 
Each  of  his  most  gracious  glances 
Draws  the  tear  of  gratitude — ■ 
Ay,  that  royal  look  entrances 
E'en  the  surly  and  the  rude. 

FROM    "FREDMAn's   SONCS,"   NUMBER    64 


TO  ULLA  AT  A  WINDOW  IN  FISHER- 
TOWN,  NOON  OF  A  SUMMER  DAY 

Ulla,  mine  Ulla,  to  thee  may  I  proffer 
Reddest  of  strawberries,  milk,  and  wine. 
Or  a  bright  carp  from  the  fen  shall  I  offer, 
Or  but  a  bowl  from  the  fountain  so  fine? 


i6  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Truly  the  flood-gates  of  heaven  are  broken  — 
Rich  is  the  scent  of  flower  and  tree — 
Drizzling,  the  clouds  now  the  sun  but  foretoken, 
Thou  may'st  see. 

Chorus 
Isn't  it  delightful,  little  Fishertown? 

"Delightful!  Be  it  spoken." 
Here  the  rows  of  tree-trunks  stretching  proudly  down 
In  brand-new  gown; 
There  the  quiet  reaches 
Of  the  inlet  flow; 
And  off  yonder  mid  the  ditches 
Ploughed  land,  lo! 
Isn't  it  delightful — all  these  meadows,  though? 
"Delightful,  so 
Delightful,  oh!" 

Hail,  sweet,  who  there  at  the  window  dost  hover! 
Hark,  how  the  bells  from  the  city  sound! 
See  how  with  dust-clouds  the  carriages  cover 
All  the  green  hue  of  the  country  around! 
I  in  my  saddle  drowsing  survey  thee. 
Hand  from  the  window,  cousin  mine. 
First  a  dry  rusk  and  a  can  of,  I  pray  thee, 
Hogland  wine. 

Isn't  it  delightful,  etc. 


KARL  MIKAEL  BELLMAN  17 

Off  to  his  stable  is  led  my  good  charger, 
Whinnying,  stamping  in  mad  career. 
Soon  in  the  doorway  he  stands.  How  much  larger 
Seem  now  his  eyes  as  he  stares  at  thee  here! 
Thou  dost  enkindle  all  nature  with  pleasure, 
As  thy  warm  eyes  enflame  now  me. 
Clang!  at  thy  lattice  with  heart's  fullest  measure  — 
Here  's  to  thee. 

Chorus 
Isn't  it  delightful,  little  Fishertown? 

"Delightful!  Be  it  spoken." 
Here  the  rows  of  tree-trunks  stretching  proudly  down 
In  brand-new  gown; 
There  the  quiet  reaches 
Of  the  inlet  flow; 
And  off  yonder  mid  the  ditches 
Ploughed  land,  lo! 
Isn't  it  delightful  —  all  these  meadows,  though? 
"Delightful,  so 
Delightful,  oh!" 

FROM    "FREDMAn's  EPISTLES,"    NUMBER    J  I 


l8  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Johan  Henrik  Kellgren,  1751-1  7.95 
THE  ART  OF  SUCCEEDING 

A   SIMPLE   RULE   OF  CONDUCT   FOR   THE   YOUNG 

JVLy  dearest  boy^  become  a  fool; 
In  all  things  then  you  will  succeed! 

This  was  a  prudent  mother's  rule 

When  first  her  son  the  words  could  heed: 

]\4y  dearest  boy^  become  a  fool; 

In  all  things  then  you  will  succeed! 

Sense  is  a  danger  to  Success, 
Which  nearly  always,  merciless, 
Takes  care  that  Sense  is  shown  the  door. 
Wit  but  annoys  with  ill-address. 
Where  Folly  pleases  more  and  more 
And  never  gives  a  worm  distress. 
But  slinks  on  sidelong  to  the  fore, 
Until,  while  wiser  men  ignore, 
Presto!  he  wins  the  longed-for  meed. 
.  Ay,  wit  is  but  a  two-edged  tool 
The  devil  must  have  forged  indeed. 
My  dearest  boy^  become  a  fool; 
In  all  things  then  you  will  succeed! 

While  Folly,  sleek  and  fair  to  see. 
Is  resting  on  an  eider  bed 


JOHAN  HENRIK  KELLGREN  19 

And  flourishes  in  luxury, 

Poor  Wit  lies  pale  and  ill  bested 

On  hay  and  straw  most  woefully; 

Sore  vexed  and  sadly  underfed, 

He  gnaws  a  crust  of  mouldy  bread. 

Then  fly  from  Wit  as  from  the  pest; 

Upon  his  lips  there  smirks  a  jest 

Which  for  all  fools  is  poison  dire. 

For  that  fool  most  whom  all  the  rest 

For  might  and  rank  do  most  admire: 

And  if  the  dart  should  stick — what  's  worse — in 

The  thin  skin  of  some  holy  person. 

Which  —  God  mend!  —  oft  occurs  indeed, 

No  man  will  give,  we  're  all  agreed, 

A  twopence  for  Sir  Wit  again; 

For  hate,  in  hearts  of  saintly  breed 

Enkindled,  only  pauses  when 

It  sees  its  writhing  victim  feed 

The  temporal  flames,  and  bids  him  then 

To  flames  eternal  straightway  speed. 

A^o,  my  good  lad^  obey  the  rule^ 

Be  a  dull  yack^  a  dolt^  a  fool; 

In  all  things  then  you  will  succeed! 

How  right  was  that  old  lady,  lo! 
And  how  we  should  revere  her  name! 
The  Education  Board,  I  trow, 
No  easier,  better  course  can  show 
To-day  for  winning  wealth  and  fame. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

How  well  she  knew  the  world,  that  dame! 
If  Corydon,  poor  studious  boy, 
Had  followed  but  her  son's  example, 
He  'd  stand  by  now  in  Fortune's  temple. 
Those  words  are  gold  without  alloy, 
God  keep  her  blessed  soul  in  joy ! 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  21 

Anna  Maria  Le?i?igren,  1755-1817 

THE  BOY  AND  HIS  PLAYTHINGS 

I  SAW  a  little  boy  who  made 
A  ship  of  fluff  with  flags  arrayed, 
And  he  rejoiced  in  it  how  gladly ! 
Then  came  a  glum  old  sage,  and  he 
Said  ship  and  flag  were  trumpery; 
He  proved  it  —  gone  was  all  the  glee. 
Ah,  but  the  sage  had  acted  badly! 

The  boy  then  tried  another  hope, 

And  in  a  bowl  dissolving  soap. 

He  blew  a  gaily  tinted  bubble. 

The  sage  cried  out:  "How  can  you  dare? 

Your  mortal  fate  is  symbolled  there." 

It  sank,  the  boy  was  in  despair. 

How  came  the  sage  to  cause  this  trouble? 

Ye  over-clever  of  our  earth, 

How  little  thanks  your  zeal  is  worth. 

Which  holds  the  glass  of  truth  before  us 

To  snare  us  all  in  learning's  net! 

We  are  but  children,  therefore  let 

Us  keep  our  foolish  playthings  yet 

In  happiness,  while  you  ignore  us! 


22  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

CASTLE  AND   COTTAGE 

1  HIS  peasant  cot  of  mine  here 
Is  mine,  though  poor  it  be, 

And  all  their  heads  incline  here 
Who  come  to  visit  me. 

Not  many  buildings  nestle 
In  this  wild  neighborhood, 

But  there  's  a  cloud-high  castle 
Up  yonder  in  the  wood. 

With  noisy  pomp  and  riot 
Dwells  there  a  nobleman. 

I  always  sleep  in  quiet, 
But  that  he  never  can. 

A  courtier  he — worse  fortune!  — 
A  splendid  star  he  wears. 

Poor  lord,  though  he  importune. 
How  little  joy  he  shares! 

One  lovely  day  at  gloaming 
I  sat  beside  my  door. 

When  sudden  I  heard  coming 
His  dogs  with  yelp  and  roar. 

His  Grace  was  past  me  springing 
As  I  in  blissful  mood 


ANNA  MARIA  LENNGREN  23 

A  hymn  of  thanks  was  singing 
That  God  had  been  so  good. 

The  song  I  sang  that  even 

Was  of  a  simple  kind 
I  'd  made  in  praise  to  Heaven 

For  calm  and  peace  of  mind, 

That  health  and  food  sustained  me, 

A  Father's  care  I  knew, 
That  rest  from  toil  was  deigned  me. 
No  crime  had  I  to  rue. 

Leaned  on  his  gun,  mayhap  then 

His  Grace  had  heard  my  lay. 
I  ceased  and  raised  my  cap  then; 

He,  thoughtful,  went  his  way. 

He  breathed  a  sigh  of  sadness  — 
I  understood  it  well: 
"Ah,  give  me  but  your  gladness, 
And  in  my  castle  dwell!" 

Mine  eyes  I  then  uplifted 

To  Him  who  ordereth  so: 
The  high  with  wealth  are  gifted. 

With  happiness  the  low. 


24  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

THE  PORTRAITS 

U  PON  an  old  estate  from  ancient  sires  descended 
A  widowed  countess  dwelt;  the  years  her  face  had  scored, 
Infirm  she  was,  drank  tea  of  elder-flowers  blended. 
On  twinges  of  her  legs  for  weather  signs  depended. 
And  oftentimes  the  dame  was  to  distraction  bored. 
One  day  —  for  reasons  unexplored, — 
When  with  her  maid  she  sat  where  soared 
The  lofty  hall,  with  gilt  and  paneled  leather  splendid, 
While,  each  in  its  appointed  place. 
Hung  portraits  of  her  high-born  race, — 
She  in  her  lofty  mind  bethought: 
"If  condescendingly  I  brought 
Myself  to  speak  with  this  dull  person. 
Perhaps  the  change  would  give  my  gout  a  small  diversion; 
Though  surely  such  a  stupid  flounder 
Would  comprehend  the  smallest  fraction. 
Yet  my  own  lungs  would  have  some  action 
And  this  poor  simpleton  would  be  quite  lost  in  wonder 
On  hearing  tell  of  my  extraction." 

"Susanna,"  she  began  at  length,  "this  hall  you  sweep. 
Sweep  it  each  day  throughout  the  year, 
You  see  what  likenesses  are  here; 
But  gape,  half  silly,  half  asleep. 
At  them,  nor  guess  what  folk  you  keep  from  cobwebs 

clear. 
Listen!  .  .  .  He  on  the  right,  sire  of  my  grandsire  dear, 


ANNA  MARIA  LENNGREN  25 

Is  the  much  travelled  President, 

Who  knew  of  every  fly  the  Greek  or  Latin  name; 

To  the  Academy  he  gave,  when  home  he  came, 

A  lob-worm  from  the  Orient.  .  .  . 

Well,  next  beyond  him — in  the  corner  by  mischance  — 

Is  my  dear  only  son,  the  Ensign  late-lamented. 

Pattern  in  posture  and  the  dance. 

Whom  all  our  hopes  were  fixed  upon, — 

Seven  new  pigtails  he  invented. 

A  window-draught  he  failed  to  shun. 

And  a  catarrh  set  in;  his  glorious  course  was  run. 

A  marble  monument  to  him  shall  be  erected.  .  .  . 

Yon  lady,  to  my  ma,  the  Countess,  near  connected, 

Was  in  her  day  esteemed  a  beauty  of  much  note. 

And — if  indeed  it 's  true  and  not  a  fabrication  — 

Helped  Queen  Christine  at  coronation 

To  hook  her  under-petticoat.  .  .  . 

She  with  the  mantle,  much  admired. 

Is  my  great-aunt — a  lovely  face!  .  .  . 

That  old  man  in  the  robe  attired, 

A  worthy  uncle  of  our  race. 

Once  played  at  chess  against  the  Czar  of  Russia's 

Grace.  .  .  . 
Yon  portrait  to  the  left  you  see, 
That  is  my  sainted  spouse,  the  Colonel. 
Who  had  ability  and  talent  nigh  supernal 
In  partridge-shooting,  if  not  he?  .  .  . 
But  now  look  well  at  yonder  dame  there 
Within  the  pretty  oval  frame  there. 


26  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Who  on  her  swelling  breast  is  wearing  a  bouquet  — 

Look  hither  —  not  at  that  one,  nay!  — 

'T  is  plain  to  see  what  pride  within  her  glance  reposes, 

And  mark  how  nobly  curved  her  nose  is! 

King  Frederick  to  yon  fair,  one  night,  his  court  would 

But  she  was  virtue's  self  and  ever  humbly  froze  his 

Fond  passion,  daring  to  oppose  his 

Attention,  till  abashed:  '^Ma  cKere^  he  had  to  say, 
'You  have  a  parlous  offish  way.' 

Many  still  live  to  tell  of  that  affair  so  naughty. — 

Well,  don't  you  recognize  her,  eh? 

Am  I  not  known  at  once  by  yonder  forehead  haughty?" 
"But,"  cried  Susanna,  "God  preserve  us!"  — 

Dropping  her  shears  and  needle-case, — 
"Can  that  be  meant  to  be  your  Grace!  !  !" 
*'Be  meant  to  be?  .  .  .  What!  .  .  .  Leave  my  service! 

Minx,  out  of  doors  with  you  and  your  unfinished  lace !  — 

The  shame!  But  still  it  happens  rightly 

When  one  essays  to  talk  with  such  a  beast  politely." 

The  Countess  had  at  once  a  fresh  attack  of  gout; 
No  moral  to  this  tale  has  further  been  found  out. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  27 

Karl  Gustaf  af  Leopold,  1  756-1 829 
A  LEGACY 

FIDEIKOMMISS 

JVIy  dear  George,  my  end  is  nearing, 
But  I  'd  give  you  ere  I  go 
Some  instructions  worth  your  hearing, 
Since  to  me  your  birth  you  owe. 

When  you  're  cold,  my  boy,  go  warm  you; 
When  you  've  food  and  appetite. 
Eat;  come  in,  when  rain  would  harm  you; 
When  the  sun  shines,  quench  your  light. 
If  you  're  pressed  for  time,  then  hurry; 
And  if  you  're  tired,  straightway  stop. 
If  you 're  sleepy,  rest  from  worry; 
When  you  've  slept  it  off,  get  up. 
Is  your  house  no  longer  cheery. 
Pack  your  coffers  and  begor>e; 
If  with  travel  you  grow  weary. 
Why — go  home  again,  my  son. 
Flee  the  danger  that  affrights  you. 
Take  what  joys  the  fates  may  send; 
Live  as  long  as  life  delights  you, 
Die,  as  I  do,  at  the  end. 

By  these  principles  directed 

You  may  pass  through  life  in  bliss. 


28  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Thousands — take  it  not  amiss!  — 
Live  and  are  by  all  respected 
With  no  greater  art  than  this. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  29 

Bengt  Lidner,  \l 51-^19^ 

SONG  OF  THE  BATTLE-SKALD 

O  YOUTH,  if  thou  but  have  the  heart 

Thy  father's  path  to  try, 
Go  forth  to  play  a  hero's  part. 

And  save  thy  land  or  die! 

The  fountain's  voice  is  not  so  rare 

Beside  a  flowery  strand. 
The  light  of  day  is  not  so  fair 

As  death  for  native  land. 

Through  every  age  the  wings  of  fame 

Thy  glory  shall  upraise, 
And  in  eternity  thy  name 

Shall  ring  in  songs  of  praise. 

That  name  shall  win  a  star  also, 

A  maiden  young  and  free 
Shall  to  thy  tomb  with  roses  go, 

Thy  priestess  there  to  be. 


FROM    '•  MEDEA 


30  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

INTRODUCTION  TO  "SPASTARA'S  DEATH" 

On  Nova  Zembla's  peaks,  in  vales  of  parched  Ceylon 
The  man  of  hapless  lot  is  as  my  friend  and  brother; 
Hearing  his  fate,  I  pay  my  debt  of  tears  anon, 
O  Nature,  unto  thee,  thou  universal  mother. 
Not,  Heaven,  that  I  dare  accuse  thy  dispensation. 
Though  on  my  budding  spring  vi^as  sent  the  deadly  hail; 
But  should  I  only  count  my  days  of  exultation, 
'T  would  prove  that  in  my  breast  a  human  heart  must  fail. 
'Tu'ixt  fortune's  ebb  and  flood  my  ship  of  life  is  cast. 
With  feeble  Hope  to  steer,  while  vi^aves  of  grief  roll  past; 
No  haven  through  the  mist  I  see. 
"You're  not  alone." — With  that  console  a  tiger's  heart ! 
Barbaric  solace:  that  there  many  be 

Who  bear  in  life  an  equal  smart ! 
Shall  that  —  O  gracious  God!  —  allay  mine  agony? 

A  thousand  thunderbolts  upon  me  fall! 
Lucky  within  the  depths  of  an  abyss  I  'd  call 
Myself,  were  there  not  men  still  more  unfortunate. 
But — law  severe  of  mortal  fate!  — 
At  sight  of  others'  pain  I  grieve  in  fullest  measure. 
My  blood  chills  in  my  veins,  upon  the  rack  I  lie. 

In  heaven  I  could  feel  no  pleasure 
If  I  from  earth  could  hear  my  fellows  cry. 
And  when,  Spastara,  with  sublime  devotion 
A  sacrifice  for  love  amid  the  flames  you  die. 
Shall  I  be  spared  from  sad  emotion  ? 
Shall  I  be  hard  as  —  Heaven  toward  you? 


BENGT  LIDNER  31 

No,  to  the  fountain  whence  are  springing 

Your  griefs,  I  bear  an  offering  too. 
I  take  my  lute  and  now  with  tears  begin  my  singing: 
I  can  no  more,  no  more  your  shade  would  have  me  do. 


32  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Franz  Mikael  Franzen,  1772-1847 

CHAMPAGNE 

J->)rink!  They  dissolve,  the  faint-whispering 

Froth-pearls;  oh,  drink! 
Hasten !  The  lovely,  the  lofty,  the  noble 

Vainly  you  '11  seek  if  the  soul  of  them  sink. 
Fool,  if  you  fasten  your  eyes  on  the  bubble. 

Water  is  all  you  may  quaff  at  the  brink ! 


Take!  They  depart,  the  enravishing 

Hours;  then  take! 
All  the  most  exquisite  laughter  and  rapture 

Rise  and  subside  while  the  moment 's  at  stake. 
Joy  in  the  midst  of  its  flight  you  must  capture; 

Rockets  when  highest  the  soonest  will  break. 

Soon  from  the  earth  flies  enspiriting 

Pleasure,  ah  soon! 
Caught  by  the  youth  in  his  keen  expectation 

Out  of  the  grape  as  a  delicate  boon, 
Then  from  the  rose-mouth  that  buds  with  elation 

Straightway  't  is  off  to  its  home  o'er  the  moon. 


V 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  33 

Johan  Olof  Wallin,  1779-1839 

FROM  "THE  ANGEL  OF  DEATH" 

1  AM  the  Strong  One,  and  I  have  power 

Till  comes  a  stronger  to  break  my  will. 
In  deepest  clefts  or  where  mountains  tower 
Ye  feel  my  breath  in  the  blasts  that  chill. 
The  pest  that  harrows 

And  cleanses  nations, 
And  Night's  dread  arrows 
Do  ministrations 
For  me;  resistless  their  blows  they  deal 
Through  wall  of  copper  and  targe  of  steel. 

My  wings  on  blasts  of  the  storm  are  rushing, 

I  roll  the  loud  wave  against  the  strand. 
All  states,  all  empires  abide  my  crushing, 
I  wrest  the  bolt  from  the  thunder's  hand. 
While  I,  pursuing. 

Hunt  down  the  ages. 
The  sea  of  doing 
Beneath  me  rages. 
Man's  works  are  shattered  before  my  feet 
Till  roaring  billows  no  more  shall  beat. 

Nor  wit  nor  weapon  can  long  oppose  me. 
No  art,  no  learning  withstands  my  might. 


34  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

To  thralls  as  freedom  I  may  disclose  me, 
But  armed  kings  on  their  thrones  I  smite. 
I  call  to  battle. 

And  armies  fall  then. 
Like  slaughtered  cattle 
They  perish  all  then; 
No  drum  shall  rouse  them  from  dreams  profound 
Until  the  Trumpet  of  Doom  shall  sound. 

My  hand  but  waves,  and  the  living  legions 
Are  swept  from  earth  unto  chaos,  where 
No  name  is  heard  in  the  lonely  regions 
And  not  a  tongue  can  make  answer  there. 
As  forth  I  wander. 

All  thrones  are  crumbled, 
See  Alexander, 

Napoleon  humbled! 
The  victor  monarchs  of  yore  to-day 
Are  but  a  handful  of  common  clay. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  35 

Esaias  Tegner,  1782-1846 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE 

00  hot  shines  the  sun  on  the  Nile's  fertile  shore, 
The  shade  of  the  palms  can  protect  us  no  more. 
Then  back  to  our  home-land  we  fain  would  set  forth 
Our  squadrons  assemble:  "Away!  to  the  north!" 

And  there  far  below  like  a  grave  to  our  view 
We  see  the  green  earth  and  the  ocean  so  blue, 
Where  storms  and  unrest  never  cease,  but  on  high 
As  free  as  the  clouds  of  the  heavens  we  fly. 

Far  up  mid  the  mountains  a  vale  is  outspread. 
And  there  we  alight  and  prepare  us  a  bed. 
Our  eggs  near  the  Pole  then  are  laid  every  one, 
And  hatched  in  the  light  of  the  midnight  sun. 


No  hunter  may  trouble  the  peace  of  our  dale. 
But  gold-winged  elves  come  to  dance  in  that  vale. 
The  green-mantled  Wood  Queen  at  eve  wanders  there, 
And  dwarfs'  hammers  ring  from  some  deep  mountain  lair. 

But  winter  soon  stands  on  the  summit  once  more 
And  flaps  his  white  wings  with  a  thunderous  roar, 
The  hare's  fur  grows  white  too,  the  ash-berries  glow. 
Our  squadrons  assemble  with:  "South  we  must  go!" 


36  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Then  fields  that  are  verdant,  and  waves  that  are  hot, 
And  shade-giving  palm-trees  are  dear  to  our  thought. 
We  rest  there  awhile  from  our  journey,  and  then 
We  long  for  our  world  in  the  northland  again. 


KISSES 

You  for  every  line  I  make 
Promise  me  a  kiss  for  wages; 
Gladly,  then,  I  fill  the  pages. 
Less  reward  I  often  take. 
Still  we  ought  to  make  some  measure, 
I  with  lines,  with  kisses  you. 
Let  me  count:  here's  seven  due, 
Call  it  eight!  The  more  my  pleasure. 

Eight's  unlucky,  worse  than  seven. 
Nine  of  old  the  Grecian  Muses, 
One  for  Sweden  ten  excuses. 
The  Apostles  were  eleven, 
Judas'  name  I  do  not  reckon, 
He  who  kissed  so  faithlessly; 
Fear  not  such  a  kiss  from  me. 
Least  of  all  when  fair  lips  beckon. 

What 's  the  tally,  all  this  time? 
Eighteen;  some  would  think  it  plenty. 
Nineteen  —  I  must  match  the  rhyme. 
So  perforce  will  make  it  twenty. 


ESAIAS  TEGNER  37 

Well,  the  stanza's  nigh  complete, 
And  I  steer  me  back  to  shore  now, 
Therefore  be  content,  my  sweet, 
For  the  nonce  with  twenty-four  now. 


THE  GIANT 

1  DWELL  in  mountain  caverns, 

Deep-hid  from  daylight. 

Where  never  Odin's  eye  can 

Pierce  through  the  darkness. 

I  hate  the  white-skinned  strangers, 

The  sons  of  Askur, 

Who  bow  the  knee  to  gods  that 

My  heart  despises. 

My  joy  it  is  to  ride  on 
The  storm  at  midnight. 
I  trample  down  the  harvest, 
The  ships  I  shatter. 
I  lead  astray  the  wand'rer 
Who  seeks  his  cabin. 
And  I  exult  to  see  him 
Quake  at  my  laughter. 

But  I  can  bear  the  day  too. 
Though  ne'er  so  dazzling, 
If  the  Valkyries  wave  their 
Blood-stained  pinions. 


38  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

How  fine!  when  bow-sped  swallows 
Flit  o'er  the  army, 
And  broadswords  chill  full  many 
A  heart  hot-beating. 

"What  wouldst  thou  with  innocence, 
Daughter  of  Embla?" 
See!  in  the  troll's  embraces 
The  bloom  is  withered. 

"Why  shouldst  thou  fight  for  country, 

0  youthful  Norseman?" 

He  sold  his  father's  grave  for 
A  golden  pittance. 

A  sage  sat  in  a  valley 

And  spoke  such  wisdom 

As  Odin  might  have  heard  from 

The  head  of  Mimer. 

1  flung  a  mist  around  him 
As  there  he  pondered. 

How  fine!  The  fool  denies  now 
The  great  All-Father. 

I  hate  the  dreams  of  poets, 
Those  Valhall  fancies 
Of  fatherland  and  honor, 
Of  gods  and  virtue. 
I  can't  entice  the  fool  in 
His  cloudland  roaming; 


ESAIAS  TEGNER  39 

Yet  there's  no  need:  on  earth  he 
Is  disregarded. 

Thor  comes  now  with  his  hammer, 

I  smile  to  see  him; 

I  set  a  mountain  peak  on 

My  head  for  helmet. 

Let  heroes  come  to  fight  me, 

Let  shine  the  sunlight! 

For  Evil  is  immortal 

Even  as  Good  is. 


THE  ETERNAL 
1  HE  Strong  man  awhile  in  his  kingdom  is  lord,  *^^*^^-<>CCtA^ 

Like  eagles  his  glory  is  flying;  ^^t^-^r^W^ 

But  broken  at  last  is  the  conquering  sword,  7 

And  the  eagles  in  dust  will  be  lying. 
What  Might  has  created  is  short-lived  and  vain: 
Like  winds  of  the  desert  it  passes  again. 

But  Truth  lives  forever.  Though  weapons  be  whirled, 

Her  brow  shines  undimmed  o'er  the  pother. 

'Tis  she  that  leads  on  through  the  night  of  this  world 

And  points  us  the  way  to  another. 

The  True  is  eternal:    from  heaven  to  earth 

With  each  generation  the  word  echoes  forth. 


40  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

The  Right  is  eternal:  though  trod  in  the  dust, 

Yet  never  her  lily  shall  perish. 

Though  Evil  have  won  all  the  world  from  the  just, 

Your  will  yet  availeth  to  cherish. 

Though  Force  and  Deceit  all  without  may  have  reft. 

Yet  hid  in  your  bosom  a  stronghold  is  left. 

The  fiery  will  which  was  barred  from  its  choice 

Takes  form,  like  to  God,  and  is  action. 

The  Right  finds  a  weapon,  the  True  finds  a  voice. 

Men  rise  up  in  bold  insurrection. 

The  gifts  you  have  brought  and  the  dangers  you've  run 

Arise  out  of  Lethe  like  stars,  every  one. 

And  Poetry  's  not  as  a  bow  in  the  sky, 

Or  volatile  perfume  of  flowers. 

The  beauty  you  make  is  not  dust  that  shall  die, 

The  ages  but  quicken  its  powers. 

Eternal  is  Beauty,  its  metal  sublime 

We  ardently  seek  in  the  waters  of  Time. 

Then  seize  on  all  Truth,  venture  all  for  the  Right, 

Make  Beauty  with  joy  for  your  wages ! 

These  three  from  humanity  never  take  flight. 

With  them  we  appeal  to  the  ages. 

Whatever  Time  gave,  unto  Time  you  must  pay. 

The  Eternal  alone  dwells  within  you  for  aye. 


ESAIAS  TEGNER  41 

SONG  TO  THE  SUN 

1  WILL  sing  unto  thee, 
O  thou  radiant  sun, 
High  aloft  on  thy  throne 
In  the  deep,  azure  night. 
With  the  worlds  left  and  right 
As  thy  vassals.  Below 
In  thy  glance  they  may  glow; 
But  their  light  thou  must  be. 

Behold!  Nature  is  dead. 
Now,  when  ghosts  walk  about, 
On  her  form  night  has  cast 
A  black  mort-cloth  at  last. 
Many  lamps  lend  relief 
To  the  mansion  of  grief. 
Thou  again  steppest  out 
When  the  east  burneth  red. 
Like  a  rosebud  unfurled 
Now  awakens  the  world. 
It  takes  life,  it  takes  hue. 
But  with  joy  thou  look'st  down 
On  the  glittering  dew, 
And  the  hills'  flaming  crown. 
And  Life's  flowing  stream. 
That  was  stilled  in  a  dream. 
Now  goes  murmuring  on 
With  thine  image,  O  sun. 


42  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Till,  more  cool,  thy  rays  fall 
On  the  great  western  hall. 
Where  fulfilled  is  each  hope 
And  where  virtue  may  rest 
When  the  portals  shall  ope 
To  the  realm  of  the  blest. 

O  celestial  one,  say 
Whence  thou  earnest,  I  pray. 
Wert  thou  by  at  the  time 
The  Almighty  sublime 
I     Sowed  the  glittering  night 
With  the  seed  of  the  light? 
Or  perchance  was  thy  place 
By  the  throne  of  the  Lord — 
Far  aloft  above  Space  — 
Where  the  angels  adored; 
Till  no  more  thou  wouldst  brook 
The  commands  from  on  high, 
And  He  wrathfuUy  took 
Thee  and  flung  through  the  sky 
With  supernal  disdain 
Like  a  ball  in  the  blue 
Which  might  show  to  full  view 
That  He  only  doth  reign? 
Therefore  on  thou  dost  roll 
With  so  restless  a  will 
That  no  friend  may  console 
Thee  or  bid  thee  be  still. 


ESAIAS  TEGNER  43 

And  anon  thou  dost  seek 

With  a  cloud  to  enfurl 

The  hot  shame  of  thy  cheek, 

For  thou  ruest  the  day 

The  Avenger  did  hurl 

From  His  presence  away, 

And  thou  fell'st  from  His  knees 

To  the  sky's  desert  seas. 

Seems  it  long  thou  hast  strode 
On  thy  journey  alone? 
Dost  thou  tire  of  the  road 
Thou  so  often  hast  gone? 
As  in  ages  untold 
Thou  hast  come  the  same  way. 
Have  thy  tresses  of  gold 
Never  softened  to  gray? 
Thou'rt  a  warrior  strong 
In  the  radiant  strath, 
And  thy  bold  legions  throng, 
Over-arching  thy  path. 
But  the  hour  draws  near 
When  thy  great  yellow  sphere 
With  a  loud  noise  will  break. 
And  Creation  shall  quake. 
Like  a  tottering  wall 
Will  the  universe  fall 
Into  atoms  with  thee; 
And  Time,  that  on  high 


44  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Like  an  eagle  sped  free, 
Shall  fall,  wounded,  and  die. 
Now  an  angel  doth  soar. 
Where  thou  svvammest  of  yore 
Like  a  swan  gcdd  of  hue 
On  the  ocean  of  blue; 
He  looks  dumbly  around 
On  the  empty  Profound, 
But  he  sees  thee  not  there. 
For,  thy  long  trial  o'er, 
The  Almighty  thee  bore 
On  His  arm  like  a  child, 
And  received  thee  to  rest 
On  His  fatherly  breast. 

Do  thou  roll  on  thy  way 
And  be  glad  in  the  light 
Till  thou  reachest  that  day! 
We  shall  win  through  the  night. 
Be  it  never  so  long. 
And  in  fairer  blue  then 
I  shall  hail  thee  again 
With  a  lovelier  song. 


FAREWELL  TO  MY  LYRE 

Farewell,  my  lyre!  for  now  the  course  is  run. 
Lay  thee  to  sleep ;  our  singing-time  is  done. 
Before  thy  tones  my  sorrow  often  fled 


ESAIAS  TEGNER  45 

As  Saul's  of  old.  The  echoes  of  them  sped 
Through  many  a  good,  yea,  far  more  worthy  breast. 
I'm  done  with  thee.  Be  still,  and  take  thy  rest! 

'-'Svea"  I  once  did  sing  and  "Frithiof's  Lay," 
To  Nature,  Man,  and  God  mine  anthems  rang: 
In  sober  truth  I  lived  but  when  I  sang. 
From  north  to  south  the  winds  did  shift  and  sway. 
My  poor  heart  had  from  thorns  full  many  a  pang, 
But  many  a  rose  would  charm  the  pain  away. 
I  scarce  can  tell  —  my  days  have  seemed  so  brief — 
If  I  had  more  of  joy  or  more  of  grief. 

Thou  wert  mv  weapon,  naught  but  thee  I  carried. 

Thou  wert  my  shield,  none  other  could  I  get. 

We  went  upon  adventures,  never  tarried. 

We  once  would  conquer  everything  we  met. 

But  at  the  grave  the  scutcheon  must  be  shattered; 

God  bids  me  now  depart,  my  race  is  dead  or  scattered. 

Thou  Poetry,  where  erst  my  soul  did  dwell, 
Spirit  of  heaven,  farewell,  a  long  farewell! 
1  must  go  hence,  my  days  will  be  but  few. 
Thou  wert  my  everything:  the  Good,  the  True. 
I  loved  thee  before  all  and  over  all; 
From  heaven  thou  dost  beckon  mc  and  call. 

The  day  shall  dawn  when,  from  my  ashes  rising, 
A  bard  shall  come  to  sing  with  bolder  might 


46  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

A  strain  more  lofty  than  my  best  devising, 

A  song  I  dreamed  not  ere  my  strength  took  flight, 

Of  all  that 's  noble  in  our  Northland  story, 

Of  all  the  might  that  still  is  Sweden's  glory. 

Farewell !  I  end  where  I  began  with  thee, 

0  Song,  my  only  true  Reality, 

Life  of  my  life,  the  undying  spark  within  me; 

1  part,  though  to  the  parting  scarce  I  win  me. 
Brothers,  the  time  's  not  yet,  but  on  some  day 
We'll  part  no  more,  have  no  farewells  to  say. — 
But  now,  farewell!  The  parting's  not  for  long. 
Wither,  ye  laurels,  round  my  temples  gray. 

Die  on  my  lips,  O  thou,  my  final  song! 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  47 

E?'ik  GiistaJ  Geijer,  1783-1847 

THE  CHARCOAL-BURNER'S  SON 

JVLy  father  he  's  at  the  kiln  away, 

My  mother  sits  at  her  spinning; 
But  wait,  I  '11  too  be  a  man  some  day. 

And  a  sweetheart  I  '11  then  be  winning. 
So  dark  it  is  far  off  in  the  forest. 

At  dawn  I  am  up  and  off  with  the  sun  — 
Hurrah  !  when  the  sun  's  a-shimmer. 

To  father  then  with  his  food  I  run ; 
Soon  follows  the  twilight's  o-limmer. 

So  dark  it  is  far  off  in  the  forest. 

I  roam  the  green  foot-path  fearlessly 

As  I  haste  through  the  woods  alone  there. 

But  darkly  the  pines  look  down  on  me, 

And  long  mountain  shadows  are  thrown  there. 
So  dark  it  is  far  off  in  the  forest. 

Tralala!  As  glad  as  a  bird  in  flight 

I  '11  sing  as  the  path  I  follow. 
But  harsh  the  reply  from  the  mountain  height, 

And  the  woods  are  heavy  and  hollow. 

So  dark  it  is  far  off  in  the  forest. 


^8  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

If  I  were  but  with  my  old  father,  though! 

Hark!  the  bear  is  growling  with  hunger. 
And  the  bear  is  the  mightiest  fellow,  I  know. 

And  spares  neither  older  nor  younger. 

So  dark  it  is  far  off  in  the  forest. 

The  shadows  come  down  so  thick,  so  thick. 

As  if  curtains  were  drawn  together. 
There  's  rustle  and  rattle  of  stone  and  stick, 
.  And  trolls  are  walking  the  heather. 

So  dark  it  is  far  off  in  the  forest. 

There  's  one!  There  are  two!  In  their  net  they'll  take 

Me,  alas!  —  how  the  firs  are  waving. 
They  beckon.  O  God,  do  not  Thou  forsake! 

By  flight  my  life  I  'd  be  saving. 

So  dark  it  is  far  off  in  the  forest. 

The  hours  went  by,  the  daylight  was  gone. 
The  way  it  grew  ever  more  wild  now. 

There  's  whisp'ring  and  rustling  o'er  stick  and  o'er  stone 
As  over  the  heath  runs  the  child  now. 
So  dark  it  is  far  off  in  the  forest. 

With  rosy-red  cheek  and  heart  beating  fast 

To  his  father's  kiln  swiftly  fleeing. 
He  fell.  "My  dear  son,  oh,  welcome  at  last!" 
"'Tis  trolls,  aye  and  worse  I  've  been  seeing. 
So  dark  it  is  far  off  in  the  forest." 


ERIK  GUSTAF  GEIJER  49 

"My  son,  it  is  long  here  I  've  had  to  dwell, 
But  God  has  preserved  me  from  evil. 
Whoever  knows  his  Our  Father  well 
Fears  neither  for  troll  nor  for  devil, 

Though  dark  it  is  far  ofF  in  the  forest." 


A  MARCH 

NOVEMBER   SIXTH,    1832 

O  Fatherland,  whose  memory 

Inspires  the  youthful  heart  to  praise. 

May  in  our  hearts  the  virtues  be 

That  made  thee  great  in  former  days. 

Too  long  the  grave  reminds  in  vain 

Of  what  thou  canst  not  be  again. 

Rely  not  only  on  the  past. 

But  speak  within  the  young  man's  breast! 

Our  fathers  bid  us  by  their  story 

To  live  as  they,  and  die  in  glory. 


MUSIC 

1  HOUGHT,  whose  hard  strife  only  midnight  may  see, 
Prayeth,  O  Music,  to  rest  him  with  thee. 
Feeling,  oppressed  by  the  day's  garish  light, 
Turneth,  O  Music,  to  thee  in  her  flight. 


50  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

MIGNONETTE 

r  LOWER  in  the  forest  hidden, 
Thou  that  dwellest  all  unknown, 

Thee  I  sing,  that  here  unbidden 
Comest  from  a  kindlier  zone. 

Where  no  light  thy  petal  staineth 
To  a  tint  of  blue  or  gold, 

In  the  grass  thy  head  remaineth. 
Rivalling  not  thy  sisters  bold. 

Sunbeam  may  caress  thee  never, 
Yet  a  sacred  fire  is  thine. 

And  unseen  there  bloometh  ever 
In  thy  soul  a  flower  divine. 

Life,  ah!  what  is  life  but  sadness? 

Sweetly  thou  dost  breathe  thy  prayer. 
Be  thou  glad !  To  give  out  gladness 

More  avails  than  to  be  fair. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  51 

Per  Daniel  Amadeiis  Atterhom,  1790-1855 

FELICIA'S  SONG 

Which  is  the  lovelier  scene, 

Which  the  more  sweet  of  the  two: 

Earth  so  enchantingly  green? 
Heaven  enchantingly  blue? 

While  in  a  choosing  despair 

Upward,  then  downward  I  glance. 

Who  could  select  as  more  fair 
Earth  now  or  heaven's  expanse? 

Larks  trilling  up  in  the  skies 
Call  me  to  share  in  their  rest. 

Roses  that  fetter  mine  eyes 
Offer  their  sod  for  my  nest. 


Soaring,  with  anthems  to  go 

Up  where  the  gods  dwell  on  high- 

Dreaming  mid  flowers  below, 
Which  were  the  better  to  try? 

Lark-like  and  rose-like  in  birth, 
Soul,  thou  to  both  must  belong! 

Soul,  between  heaven  and  earth 
Scatter  thou  perfume  and  song! 


/ 


52  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

CHORUS  OF  THE  WINDS 

Up  through  the  air,  over  land,  over  ocean. 

Swift  let  the  storm  of  our  legions  be  hurled! 
Morn's  rosy  wand  with  imperious  motion 
Beckons  us  forth  to  the  wakening  world. 
Onward,  to  play  in 

The  billows  that  rove! 
Onward,  to  sway  in 

The  murmuring  grove! 
Beast  and  dull  man  may  but  hark  to  the  roaring 

Sound  of  our  wings  from  some  stifling  den. 
We,  to  the  firmament  freely  upsoaring. 

Come  back  to  earth  with  our  tidings  again. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  53 

Erik  Johan  Stagnelius,  1793-1823 

THE  NIXIE 

Wreaths  of  golden  cloud  arc  glancing, 
Elves  upon  the  lea  are  dancing,  » 

While  the  sedge-crowned  nixie  ever 
Plays  his  fiddle  from  the  river. 

But  a  lad  in  clumps  of  willow. 
Hearing  music  from  the  billow. 
Calls  o'er  violet-perfumed  meadows 
Through  the  silent  evening  shadows: 

"Poor  old  boy,  how  can  you  play  so? 
Can  you  make  your  sad  heart  gay  so? 
Though  you  cheer  all  else  in  nature, 
You  can  never  be  God's  creature. 

"Heaven's  beauteous  moonlit  bowers, 
Eden  crowned  with  blooming  flowers,  ^ 

Angels  bright  with  hues  elysian, — 
These  will  never  bless  your  vision." 

Tears  flow  down  the  nixie's  face  then, 
And  he  sinks  to  his  own  place  then. 
Silent  is  the  fiddle.  Never 
Sounds  the  music  from  the  river. 


54  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Karl  Jonas  Love  Almqvist,  1 793-1 86"<) 

A  WITCH  OF  KING  CHARLES'S  TIME 

ilERE  on  the  mountain  lie  the  carlin's  blackened  bones, 

Hers  whom  aforetime  they  burned  here  on  a  pyre. 

Now  shall  you  hear  the  tale  of  that  red  flame, 

Hear  why  they  brought  the  woman  there  and  burned  her. 

The  old  woman  took  white  slivers  of  a  pine  board. 

Stuck  then  the  slivers  deep  into  a  wall. 

Softly  she  went  to  the  wall  and  with  trembling  hands  drew 

milk  for  her  little  child; 
But  from  the  rich  priest's  cow  the  milk  was  taken. 
They  stood  the  child  beside  the  mother's  pyre. 


THE  HEART'S  FLOWER 

There  is  a  flower  that  hath  no  hue. 

In  the  home  of  the  heart  doth  it  grow. 

'T  is  God  in  heaven  hath  wrought  that  flower, 

Thou  must  know. 

The  flower  hath  still  no  hue  as  yet 

In  the  home  of  the  heart  where  it  grows, 

But  God  hath  given  to  it  the  name 

Of  Brier-Rose. 

The  thorns  of  the  rose  are  wounding  the  heart. 

And  blood  the  blossom  dves. 

The  heart  then  asks  of  the  Lord: 


KARL  JONAS  LOVE  ALMQVIST  55 

'Why  didst  thou  give  me  the  rose?" 

And  gently  the  Lord  replies: 
'  Blood  of  thy  heart  stained  the  rose  for  thee; 

Thou  and  thy  rose  are  alike  now  in  beauty  to  me." 


56  .         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Johan  Ludvig  Runeberg,  1804-1877 

SVEN   DUVA 

irlis  father,  once  a  sergeant,  was  poor  and  old  and  gray, 
For  he  had  fought  in  'eighty-eight,  was  old  then,  you 

might  say. 
And  now  he  farmed  a  bit  of  ground  his  daily  bread  to  gain 
And  had  around  him  children  nine,  the  youngest  one  was 

Sven. 

That  old  man  Duva  had  himself  enough  of  brains  to  share 
Among  a  brood  as  large  as  his,  one  hardly  could  declare. 
He  surely  gave  the  elder  ones  too  much  of  his  small  wit. 
For  to  the  son  that  last  was  born  was  left  the  tiniest  bit. 

Sven  Duva  grew  up  just  the  same,  was  strong  and  broad 

of  chest. 
Toiled  like  a  slave  in  field  or  wood  with  unremitting  zest. 
Was  willing,  gay,  and  kind  of  heart,  far  more  than  clever 

folk, 
^Would  turn  his  hand  to  anything,  but  was  in  all  a  joke. 

"In  gracious  heaven's  name,  poor  son,  what  can  you  ever 
be?" 

The  old  man  often  said  to  him  in  sad  perplexity. 

But  when  such  talk  would  never  end,  Sven  Duva's  pa- 
tience failed. 

At  last  he  set  his  head  to  work  for  all  that  it  availed. 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  57 

So  one  tine  day  it  chanced  when  Sergeant  Duva  cooed 

again 
The  old  unanswered  song:  "  What  will  become  of  you, 

my  Sven  ?" 
The  old  man  started  backward  in  astonishment,  because 
"I'll  be  a  soldier,"  said  the  son,  and  spread  his  uncouth 

jaws. 

The  aged  sergeant  smiled  a  smile  full  of  contemptuous 
doubt: 
"You  rascal,  take  a  gun  and  be  a  soldier?  Oh,  get  out!" 
"  Well,"  said  the  lad,"  I  make  a  botch  of  all  I  take  in  hand ; 

Perhaps  I  '11  find  it  easier  to  die  for  king  and  land." 

Old  Duva  was  surprised  and  touched,  a  tear  rolled  down 
his  face; 

And  Sven — he  shouldered  knapsack  for  the  first  recruit- 
ing-place. 

Full-size  they  found  him,  brisk  and  strong;  't  was  all  they 
asked,  and  he 

Became  forthwith  a  raw  recruit  in  Duncker's  company. 

And  now  came  Duva's  time  to  drill  and  go  through  ex- 
ercise, 

To  watch  him  was  a  wondrous  sight;  he  drilled  in  curi- 
ous wise. 

The  corporal  might  shout  and  laugh,  might  laugh  and 
shout  his  best, 

The  new  recruit  went  on  alike  for  earnest  or  for  jest. 


58  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

When  all  the  rest  were  tired  out,  he  never  seemed  to  fret. 
He  tramped  until  the  ground  would  quake,  and  marched 

till  all  a-sweat; 
But  when  the  order  came  to  turn,  't  was  his  unhappy 

lot, 
To  face  to  right  or  face  to  left,  whichever  he  should  not. 

Then  he  was  taught  to  "shoulder  arms,"  and  taught  to 
"ground  arms,"  too, 
"  Present  arms,"  "  level  bayonets," — all  these  they  thought 
he  knew; 

When  "Shoulder  arms!"  was  called,  he  'd  "level  bay- 
onets" maybe. 

At  "  Ground  arms !  "  up  his  gun  went  to  his  shoulder  in- 
stantly. 

So  finally  Sven  Duva's  drill  grew  famous  far  and  wide, 
The  officers  and  soldiers  came  and  laughed  until  they 

cried; 
But  still  he  kept  on  patiently,  untroubled  by  a  doubt, 
And  waited  for  a  better  time  —  't  was  then  the  war  broke 

out. 

When  orders  were  to  break  up  camp,  the  question  had 

to  come. 
Had  Duva  wit  enough  to  fight  or  should  he  stay  at  home. 
He  listened  calmly  to  their  plans,  but  soon  proposed  his 

own: 
"If  I  can't  go  with  all  the  rest,  I  '11  have  to  go  alone." 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  59 

They  left  him  gun  and  knapsack  then  to  do  his  own  behest, 
A  soldier  he  when  battle  raged,  a  servant  for  the  rest; 
As  fighting-man  or  serving-man,  alike  sedate  and  cool. 
He  never  played  the  coward,  though  he  sometimes  played 
the  fool. 

One  day  with  Sandels  in  retreat,  the  Russians  on  each 

flank, 
Our  troops  were  drawing  slowly  back  along  a  river  bank. 
Right  in  the  army's  line  of  march  a  little  foot-bridge 

spanned 
The  stream,  and  there  an  outpost  stood,  scarce  twenty 

in  the  band. 

Merely  to  mend  the  broken  road  this  band  was  sent  ahead. 
Which  done,  far  off  from  shot  or  blow,  they  rested  free 

from  dread. 
They  happened  on   a  farmer's  house  and  stripped  the 

larder  bare, 
And  Duva  passed  the  victuals  round,  for  he  was  with 

them  there. 

But  on  a  sudden  all  was  changed,  for  from  the  near-by 

steep 
With  foaming  horse  an  adjutant  came  spurring  leap  on  leap. 
"Get  to  the  bridge,"  he  shouted,  "lads,  for  God's  sake, 

no  delay! 
We  've  word  a  troop  of  enemy  would  cross  and  bar  our 

way." 


6o  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

He  bade  the  leader,"  Get  the  bridge  demolished  if  you  can, 
And  if  you  can't,  well,  hold  it  then,  and  fight  to  the  last 

man! 
The  army's  lost  if  now  the  foe  should  take  us  in  the  rear. 
Sandels  will  come  to  your  support,  he'll  soon  himself  be 

here." 

He  galloped  off.  But  scarce  the  band  had  gotten  to  the 

bridge 
Before  platoons  of  Russians  rose  above  the  farther  ridge. 
They  opened  ranks,  closed  up,  took  aim  and  fired.  At  the 

sound 
Of  their  first  volley  eight  bold  Finns  went  reeling  to  the 

ground. 

The  rest  shrank  back:  why  tarry  there  when  nothing 

could  be  gained? 
Another  crash  of  musketry,  and  but  five  Finns  remained. 
They  all  obeyed  the  sergeant's  call,  "Trail  arms!"  and 

then,  "Retreat!" 
Only  Sven  Duva  got  it  wrong  and  levelled  bayonet. 

Still  worse,  the  order  to  retreat  got  twisted  in  his  head. 
And,  far  from  facing  right  about,  down  to  the  bridge  he 

sped. 
He  stood  there  firm  with  shoulders  squared,  quite  calm 

and  easy  still. 
Ready  to  show  to  all  that  came  how  well  he  knew  his 

drill. 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  6i 

They  did  n't  give  him  long  to  wait,  for  ere  he  took  his 

stand, 
Behold!  upon  the  little  bridge  there  thronged  a  hostile 

band. 
Man  after  man  they  rushed  across,  but  each  as  he  came  on 
Got  face-to-right  or  face-to-left,  fell  over,  and  was  gone. 

No  human  arm  was  strong  enough  to  make  that  giant 

yield, 
And  when  the  rear  ranks  tried  to  shoot,  the  front  ranks 

were  his  shield. 
The  fiercer  was  the  foe,  the  more  his  hope  would  come 

to  naught. 
When  up  came  Sandels  with  his  men  and  saw  how  Duva 

fought. 

"Bravo!"  he  shouted,  "fine;  keep  on,  you  splendid  fel- 
low, you ! 

Throw  every  devil  off  the  bridge,  hold  on,  for  God's 
sake,  do! 

That 's  how  a  F'inn  should  fight,  ay,  that 's  a  soldier  you 
may  say. 

Come  on,  boys,  hurry  to  his  help!  for  he  has  saved  the 
day ! " 

The  enemy  soon  found  themselves  checkmated  in  the 

game; 
The  Russians,  turning  right  about,  retreated   whence 

they  came. 


62  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

When  all  was  quiet,  Sandels  left  his  horse  and  went  to 
see 

The  soldier  who  stood  on  the  bridge  and  fought  so  gal- 
lantly. 

They  pointed  out  Sven  Duva  then.  His  battle-lust  was 

gone, 
For  he  had  fought  there  like  a  man,  and  now  the  strife 

was  done. 
It  seemed  as  though  in  weariness  he  rested  after  play. 
No  longer  bold  and  confident,  but  very  pale  he  lay. 

Then  Sandels  bent  him  down  above  that  face  so  white 

of  hue; 
No  unfamiliar  man  was  that,  but  one  whom  all  men 

knew. 
But  Sandels  saw  that  underneath  his  heart  the  grass  was 

red. 
His  breast  was  pierced,  and  through  the  wound  his  life 

by  now  had  sped. 

These  were  the  words  the  general  spake :  "  We  '11  all  of 

us  admit 
That  bullet  knew  far  more  than  we,  it  knew  the  place  to 

hit; 
It  left  unhurt  the  poor  lad's  head,  which  was  not  of  the 

best, 
And   found   itself  a   worthier   mark,  his  noble,  valiant 

breast." 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  63 

And  afterwards   whenever  men  would   tell   about   the 

fight, 
They  each  and  every  one  agreed  that  Sandels'  words 

were  right. 
"It's  true,"  they  used  to  say,  "his  mind  did  less  than 

most  men's  could, 
A  sorry  head  Sven  Duva  had,  his  heart,  though,  that  was 

good." 


THE  GIRL  OF  THE  COTTAGE 

1  HE    sun    went   down  —  't  was  summer  time — from 

evening  skies  out-welling 
A  pallid  purple  glow  was  shed  on  farm  and  farmer's 

dwelling. 
Weary  with   toil,  but  happy,  came  a  troop  of  peasant 

men; 
Now  that  the  day's  hard  task  was  done,  they  turned  them 

home  again. 

Their  task  was  done,  a  worthy  task  for  brave  and  loyal 

yeomen; 
Their  harvest  was  a  daring  band  of  felled  or  captured 

foemen. 
They  had  gone   forth   to  meet  their  foes  that  day  by 

morning  light, 
And  evening  had  already  come  when  they  had  won  the 

fight. 


64  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Hard  by  the  field  where  waves  of  strife  had  flooded  and 
reverted 

Lay  a  small  cottage  near  the  road, at  that  time  half  deserted. 

On  the  low  door-step  sat  a  girl  who  silently  would  cast 

Her  glance  on  the  returning  troops  as  they  were  march- 
ing past. 

She  looked  as  one  who  sought.  Who  knows  to  what  her 

mind  was  turning? 
A  hue  more  deep  than  sunset  gave  upon  her  cheek  was 

burning. 
She   sat   so  still,  her  searching  look  so   warmly  would 

entreat, 
That,  if  she  listened  as  she  looked,  she  heard  her  own 

heart  beat. 

But  ever  as  they  went  their  way  she  watched  the  troops 
advancing. 

From  line  to  line,  from  man  to  man,  her  eager  eyes  were 
glancing; 

There  was  a  question  in  her  look  that  trembled  unex- 
pressed. 

For  she  was  stiller  than  the  sigh  that  stole  from  her  full 
breast. 

But  in  the  end  when  all  had  passed  with  never  once  a 

token. 
The  poor  girl's  calm  held  out  no  more,  her  fortitude  was 
broken; 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  65 

Not  loud  she  wept,  but  on  her  palm  she  slowly  bowed  her 

head, 
And  soon  great  tears  came  rolling  down  and  bathed  her 

cheek  so  red. 

"  Why  do  you  weep  ?  Take  heart  again,  for  hope  is  left  us 

plainly. 
My  daughter,  hear  your  mother's  voice, — your  tears  arc 

flowing  vainly. 
Although  just  here  and  now  your  eyes  could  find  not  him 

they  sought. 
Yet  still  he  lives,  and  therefore  lives  because  on  you  he 

thought. 

"  He  thought  of  you,  for  when  he  left,  he  left  with  right 

good  warning; 
I   bade  him  take  no  heedless  risk,  as  he  went  off  this 

morning. 
He  went  because  he  had  to  go,  he  thought  not  of  the  fray, 
I  know  he  had  no  will  to  die  and  throw  life's  joy  away." 

The  girl  looked  up  and  trembled  there,  from  dreams  of 

sorrow  waking. 
Moved  by  foreboding,  as  it  seemed,  her  heart's  mute  woe 

forsaking. 
She  straightway  rose,  she  looked  but  once  across  the  field 

of  fight. 
Stole  to  the  road,  then  softly  fled,  and  disappeared  from 

sight. 


66  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

An  hour  had  passed, another  hour,  and  night  the  earth  had 

covered, 
And  over  dusky  wood  and  field  a  silver  cloudlet  hovered. 
"She  tarries  yet.  —  My  daughter,  come,  in  vain  is  all  your 

fear, 
To-morrow  while  the  dawn  is  gray  your  bridegroom  will 

be  here." 

At  last  she  came.  With  silent  step  she  neared  the  mother 

slowly, 
Her  gentle  eyes  were  filled  alone  with  tearless  melancholy. 
Her  hand  stretched  out  in  greeting  was  as  chill  as  the 

night  air, 
And  her  cold  cheek  was  whiter  than  the  cloud  above  her 

there. 

"Oh,  make  my  grave,  my  mother  dear,  for  short  will  be 
my  life  now, 

Since  he  who  won  my  faith  and  troth  has  basely  fled  the 
strife  now. 

He  thought  of  me  and  of  himself,  he  followed  as  you 
planned, 

And  he  betrayed  his  brothers'  hope,  betrayed  his  father- 
land. 

"When  others  came  and  he  came  not,  I  wept  his  fate  most 
truly, 
Among  the  dead  there  on  the  field  I  thought  him  lying 
duly; 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  67 

Isorrowed,but  mygrief  was  sweet, 'twas  not  agrieftokill, 
I  would  have  lived  a  thousand  years  to  sorrow  for  him  still. 

Mother,  I  sought  until  the  light  no  more  the  west  was 

streaking, 
None  of  the  fallen  had  the  face  beloved  which  I  was 

seeking. 
I  '11  dwell  no  longer  in  a  world  where  men  deceive  and  lie ; 
I  found  not  him   among  the  dead,  and  therefore  I  will 

die." 

OUR  LAND 

Our  land,  our  land,  our  native  land. 

Ring  high,  O  word  of  cheer! 
No  hills  by  heaven's  rim  that  stand. 
No  gentle  dales  or  foaming  strand. 

Are  loved  more  than  our  northland  here, 

The  earth  our  sires  held  dear. 

Our  land  is  poor,  or  seems  to  be 

To  him  who  covets  gold; 
A  stranger  might  not  deign  to  see 
The  land  we  love  so  faithfully. 

But  gold  to  us  its  mountains  bold. 

Its  wealth  of  moor  and  wold. 

We  love  our  brooks  that  gaily  bound, 

Our  rushing  rivers  fleet. 
The  gloomy  forest's  mournful  sound, 


68  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

The  summer  glow,  the  nights  profound, — 
All,  all  that  eye  or  ear  can  greet, 
Or  make  our  glad  hearts  beat. 

'T  was  here  of  old  our  fathers  fought 

With  brain,  and  sword,  and  plough; 
In  clear  or  cloudy  days  they  wrought. 
Whatever  fate  their  fortune  brought 

The  Finn-folk  suffered  —  none  knows  how- 
And  won  what  we  have  now. 

Oh,  who  could  tell  the  fearful  tale 

Of  what  that  folk  withstood. 
Their  hunger  in  the  wintry  gale 
When  war  ran  red  from  dale  to  dale?  — 

Who  reckon  all  the  heroes'  blood 

And  all  their  hardihood? 

'T  was  here  they  shed  that  crimson  tide. 

Yea,  here  for  us  it  flowed, 
'T  was  here  they  thrilled  with  victor  pride 
'T  was  here  in  bitter  grief  they  sighed, 

The  folk  that  bore  our  heavy  load 

Before  our  day  had  showed. 

To  us  there  is  no  fairer  spot. 
We  suffer  here  no  dearth; 
However  fate  may  cast  our  lot. 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  69 

A  land,  a  native  land  we  've  got. 

What  better  could  men  ask  on  earth 
To  love  and  hold  of  worth  ? 

And  here  before  us  lies  that  land, 

Our  eyes  behold  it  here; 
And  we  can  raise  our  outstretched  hand, 
And  gladly  point  to  sea  and  strand 

And  say:  "Behold  it,  far  and  near, 

Our  native  land  so  dear!" 

If  we  were  borne  to  realms  of  light. 

All  golden  in  the  blue, 
And  were  our  life  a  star-dance  bright 
Which  neither  sigh  nor  tear  should  blight, 

To  this  poor  land  where  first  we  grew 

Our  longing  would  be  true. 

O  land  of  myriad  lakes,  thou  land 

Where  song  and  truth  may  be. 
Where  life's  rude  ocean  spares  a  strand. 
Our  fathers'  land,  our  children's  land. 

Be  not  ashamed  of  poverty. 

Be  glad,  secure,  and  free! 

The  flowers  in  their  buds  that  grope 

Shall  burst  their  sheaths  with  spring; 
So  from  our  love  to  bloom  shall  ope 


70  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Thy  gleam,  thy  glow,  thy  joy,  thy  hope. 
And  higher  yet  some  day  shall  ring 
The  patriot-song  we  sing! 


TROUBLE  NOT  THE  MAIDEN'S  SOUL 

On  the  bank  the  maiden  sat, 
Bathed  her  feet  there  in  the  brook. 
When  a  bird  above  her  sang: 

"Maiden,  trouble  not  the  brook! 
Heaven  is  no  more  mirrored  there." 
Then  the  maiden  raised  her  glance 
And  with  weeping  eyes  she  said: 

*'  Do  not  sorrow  for  the  brook, 
Soon  the  brook  will  clear  again. 
When  you  saw  me  on  a  day 
Standing  here  beside  a  youth. 
Unto  him  you  should  have  said: 
'Trouble  not  the  maiden's  soul. 
For  it  never  will  be  clear. 
Never  mirror  heaven  again.'" 

TEARS 

W  HEN  o'er  the  crested  wood  the  sun,  uprising, 
Had  made  the  valley  dew-drops  gleam,  a  maiden 
With  tears  of  joy  went  forth  to  meet  her  lover, 
Who,  looking  in  her  eyes,  addressed  her,  smiling: 
"You  wept  at  my  departure,  now  returning 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  71 

I  once  again  behold  you  weep.  Kind  maiden, 
What  is  the  difference  in  these  tears,  pray  tell  me?" 
"Just  the  same  difference,"  the  girl  said  softly, 
"As  between  evening  dew  and  dew  of  morning: 
One  kind  the  sun  lights  up  and  then  disperses. 
The  other  bides  in  darkness  all  the  night  long." 


FROxM  "IDYLLS  AND  EPIGRAMS" 
I 

r  ROM  a  lover's  trysting  came  the  maiden, 

With  red  hands  she  came.  Her  mother  asked  her: 

"Wherefore  are  your  hands  so  red,  my  daughter?" 
And  the  girl  said,  "I've  been  plucking  roses. 
And  the  thorns  have  pricked  me  as  I  plucked  them. 
From  her  love-tryst  came  once  more  the  maiden, 
With  red  lips  she  came.  Her  mother  asked  her: 

"Wherefore  are  your  lips  so  red,  my  daughter?" 
And  the  girl  said,  "Raspberries  I  've  eaten, 
And  they  stained  my  lips  as  I  was  eating." 
From  her  love-tryst  once  again  the  maiden 
Came,  with  pallid  cheek.  Her  mother  asked  her: 

"Wherefore  is  your  cheek  so  pale,  my  daughter?" 
But  the  girl  said,  "Make  my  grave,  O  mother. 
Hide  me  there  and  set  a  cross  above  me. 
Carve  upon  the  cross  what  I  shall  tell  you: 

"Red  her  hands  were  at  the  first  returning, 
'T  was  within  a  lover's  hands  thev  reddened. 
Red  her  lips  were  at  the  next  returning, 


72  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

'T  was  beneath  a  lover's  lips  they  reddened. 

Pale  her  lips  were  at  the  last  returning, 

They  were  pale  because  her  love  was  faithless." 

II 

Spring's  first  flowers  are  the  first  to  wither, 
And  the  brook's  first  bubbles  first  are  broken: 
But  thy  heart's  first  love,  O  youthful  bosom, 
Far  outlives  whatever  loves  may  follow. 

X 

In  the  park  a  pair  of  finches  nested. 
Through  the  spring  the  male  was  ever  singing, 
Through  the  summer  oft  he  would  be  silent. 
And  when  autumn  came  he  ceased  completely. 
Why?  —  Because  as  long  as  springtime  lasted 
He  had  naught  to  think  of  but  his  sweetheart; 
But  with  summer  vexing  cares  drew  nigh  him. 
Worries  for  his  home  and  tender  offspring; 
And  when  autumn  came  and  days  grew  chilly 
Forth  toward  other  climes  went  all  his  longing. 

XIII 

Over  the  fence  the  lad 
Leaned  by  the  girl  he  loved, 
Looked  on  the  wasted  field: 
"Summer  has  fled  away, 
Flowers  are  withered  now; 
But  still  your  cheek  is  bright, 
Roses  and  lilies  there 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  -] i 

Blossom  as  formerly." 

Spring  came  once  more,  and  then 

Lonely  the  lover  stood: 

Gone  was  the  girl  —  she  lay 

Withered  in  earth's  embrace; 

Green  was  the  field  again, 

Smiling  and  blossom-clad. 

XVI 

Counsels  three  the  mother  gave  her  daughter: 

Not  to  sigh,  not  to  be  discontented. 

Not  to  give  a  kiss  to  any  lover. 

Mother,  if  your  daughter  disobey  not 

In  the  last  of  these  three  things  you  counsel. 

She  will  disobey  in  both  the  others. 

XVII 

On  the  Even  of  St.  John  the  maiden 

Winds  on  three  green  wheat-stalks  nigh  to  budding 

Silken  threads,  each  of  a  different  color; 

Then  she  goes  upon  the  morn  thereafter 

To  the  place  to  know  her  future  fortune. 

Well  and  good.  But  hearken  how  she  does  it: 
If  the  black,  the  stalk  of  grief,  has  budded, 
She  will  tell,  and  share  her  grief  with  others. 
If  the  red,  the  stalk  of  joy,  has  budded. 
She  will  tell,  and  share  her  joy  with  others. 
If  the  green,  the  stalk  of  love,  has  budded. 
She  will  hide  her  joy  within  her  bosom. 


74  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

MORNING 

PNow  the  sun  begins  to  sprinkle 
Eastern  clouds  with  purple  hue, 

And  on  bush  and  grass-blade  twinkle 
Pearly  showers  of  dripping  dew. 

All  the  woodland  birds  are  winging 
Jubilant  from  spray  to  spray, 

Myriad  songs  of  joy  upspringing 
Ere  the  last  have  died  away. 

Inlets  ripple,  waves  are  bending. 
Groves  are  stirred  by  gentle  flaws. 

Leaf  and  flower  perfumes  blending 
With  each  breath  the  bosom  draws. 

Angel,  friend  of  every  being. 

You  that  dwell  in  yon  far  skies. 

Dawn,  —  what  man  with  power  of  seeing 
Looks  on  you  with  sullen  eyes  ? 

Fled  the  mists  of  care  that  lower. 
Gone  the  clouds  from  every  brow, 

Day  in  this  his  childhood  hour 
Loves  but  childlike  feelings  now. 

Not  one  sad  or  mournful  creature, 
Joy  and  hope  in  all  have  part. 

With  the  wakening  morn  of  nature 
Morning  wakes  in  every  heart. 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  75 

THE  SWAN 

r  ROM  out  a  bright  cloud's  purple  band 

A  swan,  one  eve  in  June, 
Sank  softly  to  a  river  strand 

And  sang  a  gladsome  tune. 

All  of  the  Northland  was  his  song, 

Of  how  the  sky  is  fair, 
How  day  forgets  the  whole  night  long 

And  never  slumbers  there. 

How  shadows  there  are  rich  and  bold 

'Neath  birch  and  alder  brave, 
How  every  bay  is  touched  with  gold. 

And  cool  is  every  wave. 

How  sweet,  how  sweet  beyond  compare 

To  have  a  friend  there  too. 
How  faith  would  ever  sojourn  there. 

To  its  own  birthplace  true. 

And  so  from  wave  to  wavelet's  crest 

His  song  of  praise  would  strav. 
Until  upon  his  true-love's  breast 

He  leaned,  as  if  to  say: 

Though  of  your  life's  too  fleeting  dream 

No  future  age  may  sing, 
You  loved  beside  a  northern  stream. 

You  sang  there  in  the  spring. 


76  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

THOUGHT 

i  HOUGHT,  behold  yon  bird  there  swinging 

On  his  journey,  free  and  light. 
You  have  pinions  too  for  winging 
Toward  a  realm  divinely  bright. 

Grieve  not,  though  you  seem  a  captured 

Earth-bound  prisoner,  sad  and  loth. 
Swift  as  light  or  bird,  enraptured. 
You  may  fly  more  free  than  both. 

If  the  earth  delight  you,  tarry 
Mid  its  pleasures  for  a  timej 

If  it  irk  you,  hurry,  hurry 
Unto  regions  more  sublime. 


BESIDE  A  SPRING 

O  SPRING,  upon  your  bank  I  lean 
And  watch  the  clouds  that  drift, 

As,  guided  by  a  hand  unseen, 
Within  your  wave  they  shift. 

There  comes  a  cloud,  it  smiles  as  red 

As  budding  roses  might; 
A  short  farewell,  and  it  is  fled 

With  unreturnins  flight. 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  77 

Yet  here  's  another,  still  more  fair 

And  radiant  than  the  last! 
But,  no  less  transient,  through  the  air 

It  hurries  and  has  passed. 

Another!  This  one  hastes  not  though, 

It  plods  along  the  blue; 
But  cold  it  is  and  dark,  and  lo! 

My  spring,  it  darkens  you. 

Then  as  I  look,  my  fancies  roam. 

Till  on  my  soul  they  dwell; 
How  many  a  golden  cloud  has  come 

And  bidden  it  farewell, — 

How  many  a  gloomy  cloud  has  sent 

Deep  night  across  its  day. 
They  came  so  quickly,  ah !  but  went 

So  slowly  thence  away. 

Right  well  I  understand  the  lore 

Of  how  their  shadows  roll; 
They  are  but  thin  clouds  passing  o'er 

The  mirror  of  my  soul. 

The  mirror's  hue  must  needs  depend 

On  yonder  clouds'  behest, 
O  spring,  when  will  your  bubblings  end. 

When  will  your  waves  have  rest? 


78  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

THE  SOLDIER  BOY 

JVIy  father  was  a  soldier  young,  the  finest  you  might  see; 
Took  arms  at  fifteen,  in  two  years  he  came  to  man's  degree. 
The  field  of  honor  he  could  hold, 
He  kept  his  station,  gay  and  bold, 
In  blood,  in  fire,  in  hunger,  cold, — 
Ay,  such  a  man  was  he. 

I  was  a  boy  when  peace  was  broke  and  he  went  forth  to  fight. 
But  still  I  mind  his  splendid  stride,  I  mind  him  day  and  night ; 
His  hat,  his  plume,  his  sunburnt  hue. 
The  shadow  of  his  eyebrows  too. 
His  gallant  form,  so  grand  to  view. 
Will  never  leave  my  sight. 

Then  from  our  army  in  the  north  right  soon  were  tidings 

brought 
How  fearless  and  how  strong  he  was,  how  in  each  fight  he 

fought. 
He  had  a  medal  now  to  wear. 
By  next  report  he  had  a  pair: 
Ah  me,  how  glorious  to  be  there! 
Within  my  heart  I  thought. 

The  winter  passed,  the  snow  was  gone,  the  spring  was 

blithe  and  brave. 
When  came  the  news:  "Your  father's  dead,  his  life  he 

nobly  gave." 


JOHAN  LUDVIG  RUNEBERG  79 

Just  how  I  felt  I  hardly  ken, 
Was  now  distressed,  now  glad  again; 
But  mother  wept  three  days,  and  then 
Was  carried  to  her  grave. 

Close  to  the  banner  he  was  killed  that  dav  on  Lappo  plain, 
They  said  he  never  blenched  in  fight  but  there  when  he 

was  slain. 
At  Uttismalm,  for  Gustav's  land, 
My  grandsire  died  with  sword  in  hand, 
His  father  fell  at  Willmanstrand, 
That  was  in  Charles's  reign. 

'T  was  so  it  went,  't  was  so  they  bled,  their  course  was 

clear  and  straight; 
How  glorious  in  their  life  they  lived,  and  in  their  death 

how  great ! 
Oh,  who  would  plod  on  sluggishly? 
Nay,  hot  with  youth  in  battle-glee 
Die  for  your  king  and  country,  see 
How  manlier  such  a  fate! 

I  'm  but  a  beggar  boy  myself,  who  eats  of  others'  bread, 
I  've  neither  home  nor  shelter  now,  with  both  mv  parents 

dead; 
But  I  've  no  wish  to  go  and  cry. 
For  taller  every  day  am  I, 
To  be  a  soldier  boy  I  try. 
And  have  no  care  or  dread. 


8o  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

And  if  I  live  till  I  am  big  and  reach  fifteen  some  day, 
To  that  same  hunger,  war,  and  death  I'll  go  without  dis- 
may. 
When  whizzing  bullets  fill  the  air, 
Whoever  seeks  may  find  me  there, 
For  I  in  turn  would  follow  where 
My  fathers  led  the  way. 


LAUGHTER 

i-/AUGHTER  without  a  home 
Wandering  mournfully. 
Came  to  a  great  man's  lips: 
"May  I  have  lodging  here?"  — 
"This  is  the  home  of  Pride." 

Laughter  without  a  home 
Wandering  mournfully. 
Came  to  a  scholar's  lips: 
"May  I  have  lodging  here?"  — 
"Here  dwelleth  Gravity." 

Laughter  without  a  home 
Wandering  mournfully. 
Came  to  my  sweetheart's  lips: 
"May  I  have  lodging  here?"  — 
*'This  is  the  home  of  Love, 
Just  now  a  kiss  has  come, 
'T  was  you  we  waited  for." 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Elias  Sehlstedt,  1808-1874 

THE  SNOW-SPARROW 

CjOME  in,  come  in,  you  little  sparrow,  tapping 
My  window-pane!  You'll  break  it  soon,  I  vow. 

How  stupid!  flying  all  around  and  flapping 
When  winter  is  as  keen  and  cold  as  now. 

There  at  the  window-frame  you're  pecking  vainly: 
Come  in,  come  in!  The  evening  fire  I  've  lit. 

Fly  round  the  corner  and  you  'II  see  quite  plainly 
I  've  opened  the  piazza  door  a  bit. 

Dear  me,  what  saucy  manners!  Well,  I  never! 

Gently!  —  I'm  very  frank;  forgive  me,  pray. 
Peeping  at  my  thermometer?  that's  clever! 

Forgive,  forgive  me,  please:  it 's  just  my  way. 

Sing  out  if  you  are  hungry  and  a  vagrant; 

You  don't  look  very  shy,  I  'm  bound  to  state. 
Registered  are  you,  or  a  beggar  flagrant  ? 

And,  please,  have  you  your  birth  certificate? 

You're  freezing  surely.  Lord!  you  poor  wee  body. 
In  summer  trousers  at  this  time  of  year. 

Well,  may  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  toddy? 

Come  in,  come  in!  We'll  talk  it  over  here. 


82  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Here  at  my  poetry  you  see  me  sitting, 

And  you  could  help  a  little  while  I  rhyme; 

Then,  I  the  words  and  you  the  music  fitting. 
We  'II  do  a  little  book  for  Christmas  time. 


'      ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  83 

Bernhard  Elis  Malmstrom,  1816-1865 


THE  SIGH  OF  THE  FOREST 

One  chilly  autumn  evening  when  the  day  was  nearly 

spent,  V-' 

A  little  boy  beneath  a  tree  was  playing.  r 

He  saw  the  candles  burning  in  God  the  Father's  tent 

And  heard  the  rustling  linden-branches  swaying. 
All  hushed  he  sat,  his  senses  in  dreams  had  taken  flight, 
While  blacker  grew  the  shadows  that  chill  September  night. 
Then  deeply  in  the  dark  sighed  the  forest. 

The  boy  then  stopped  to  listen,  and  awestruck  was  his 
mood. 
He  rose  and  ran  to  check  the  rising  terror. 
For  ugly  thoughts  found  entrance  and  stirred  within  his 
blood 
Till  round  the  heath  he  wandered  all  in  error. 
He  thought  of  father,  mother,  of  brothers,  sisters  dear: 
■  Oh,  help  me,  God,  I  am  so  small.  If  only  I  were  there  ! " 
Then  deeply  in  the  dark  sighed  the  forest. 

The  moon  stepped  softly  out  from  the  cloud-rack  over- 
head, 
O'er  all  the  earth  a  silver  mantle  flinging; 
And  straightway  to  the  mountains'  foot  the  frightened 
shadows  fled. 
Back  to  their  northern  home  the  trolls  were  winding. 


\ 


e- 


84  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

The  mountain  peaks  were  shining,  but  still  the  woods 

were  dim, 
And  in  the  birches  murmured  a  sad  and  eerie  hymn. 
Then  deeply  in  the  dark  sighed  the  forest. 

The  little  boy  sped  onward  across  the  moorland  wild, 
With  many  an  ancient  tale  his  mind  was  haunted; 
The  stars  pursued  their  courses,  the  heaven  smiled  and 
smiled, 
But  still  he  could  not  find  the  path  he  wanted. 
"Ye  gentle  stars  that  travel  so  high  upon  your  way, 
Ye  little  withered  flowers,  oh,  tell  me,  tell  me,  pray. 
Who  is  it  sighs  so  deep  in  the  forest?" 

But  all  the  stars  were  silent,  the  little  flowers  too; 

Oh,  many  bitter  tears  the  boy  was  shedding, 
Until  he  reached  the  elves'  home.  With  winged  steps  he 
flew, 
And  cried,  within  their  charmed  circle  treading: 
"Oh,  ye  who  dance  so  nimbly  along  the  heathery  way, 
Wee  brothers  and  wee  sisters,  oh,  tell  me,  tell  me,  pray. 
Who  is  it  sighs  so  deep  in  the  forest?" 

She  smiled,  the  little  elf-queen, — her  lips  were  passing 
fair, — 
And  said,  his  ruddy  cheek  the  while  caressing: 
"  Don't  cry,  my  pretty  fellow,  although  you  know  not 
where 
You  've  come,  and  fear  upon  your  heart  is  pressing. 


BERNHARD  ELIS  MALMSTROM  85 

Be  seated  on  this  hillock  beside  the  heathery  way, 
And  dry  your  eyes  and  listen  to  what  I  now  shall  say 
Of  that  which  sighs  so  deep  in  the  forest. 

"When  Night  begins  his  journey  o'er  land  and  shining  sea, 
And  when  the  signs  of  day  at  length  are  vanished. 
When   waves  have  gone  to  rest   them   beneath    some 
island's  lee. 
And  pretty  stars  return  that  erst  were  banished. 
Then,  then  the  vault  of  heaven  grows  clear  and  mirror- 
bright, 
A  troop  of  blessed  angels  come  down  in  silent  flight 
And  shower  on  the  earth  their  tears  of  silver. 

"When  poor  Earth  sees  her  image  within  the  mirroring 

skies 

And  finds  herself  so  dismally  depicted. 

And  counts  the  sins:  the  murders,  the  vanities  and  lies 

Wherewith  these  thousand  years  she's  been  aflHicted, — 

A  deadly  throe  of  horror  strikes  through  her  marrow 

there. 
The  mountains  make  confession,  the  valleys  fall  to  prayer. 
And  deeply  in  the  dark  sighs  the  forest." 

"  Oh, thanks  to  thee,  thou  elf-queen  !  I  '11  not  forget  thy  lore, 
Nor  fear  as  I  go  home  across  the  heather. 
Look!  there  within  the  moonlight  I  see  my  path  once 
more; 
Good-by,  we  '11  not  forget  this  time  together. 


86  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

I've  neither  goods  nor  treasure,  I'm  as  poor  as  poor 

can  be, 
But  here  I  promise  Heaven  that  not  because  of  me 

Shall  come  at  dusk  that  sigh  from  the  forest." 


SOFTLY,  MY  HEART! 

OoFTLY,  my  heart!  For  you  soon  will  repose, 

Soon  unto  clay  will  be  turning. 
Wild  was  your  beating,  but  weary  it  grows. 

Now  for  green  peace  it  is  yearning. 
Under  the  murmuring  lindens  deep 
Soon  shall  you  wait  in  your  lonely  sleep. 

Faithful  you  've  throbbed  these  many  long  years, 

Sorrows  and  joys  you  have  given, 
Causing  me  laughter  and  causing  me  tears, 

Causing  my  guilt  before  heaven. 
But,  if  you  sinned,  you  would  ne'er  shun  the  cost; 
Glowing,  remorseful,  't  was  you  suffered  most. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  8; 

Frederik  August  Dah/gren ,  1816-1895 

THE  SUN-PARASOL 

JNow  Stina  and  Matts  went  to  Stockholm,  and  he 
Became  an  apprentice,  a  lady's-maid  she. 
But  with  her  so  deeply  in  love  did  he  fall, 
He  gave  her  a  thing  called  a  sun-parasol. 

Through  all  the  long  week  but  for  Sunday  he  prayed, 
When  he  could  get  rid  of  the  stains  of  his  trade. 
And  go  for  a  fine  promenade  in  the  mall 
To  show  off  his  sweet  with  her  sun-parasol. 

The  Sundays  came  round  just  as  sure  as  could  be. 
But  never  a  sign  of  the  sun  could  they  see. 
And  Stina  she  thought  it  would  not  do  at  all 
To  take  in  dull  weather  a  sun-parasol. 

"I  can't  understand,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  pout, 
"Why  this  year  the  sun  is  ashamed  to  come  out; 
For  into  the  clouds  like  an  ogre  he  '11  crawl 
When  I  should  go  out  with  my  sun-parasol." 

But  Matts,  who  was  truly  a  clever  young  beau. 
Said,  "You  are  so  pretty  and  dazzling,  you  know. 
That  when  you  go  out,  't  is  the  sun  most  of  all, 
I  'm  thinking,  has  need  of  a  sun-parasol," 


88  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Gunnar  fVeiinerherg ,  1 8 1  7-1 901 
HYMN 

O  God,  Who  guid'st  the  fate  of  nations, 

Almighty  over  every  land, 

Both  life  and  death  and  all  mutations 

Controlling  with  Thy  mighty  hand. 

What  punishment  Thy  will  ordaineth 

For  sins  that  Sweden  must  atone 

She  bears  with  gladness,  while  remaineth 

The  ancient  freedom  she  has  known. 

'T  is  this  that  shields  when  dangers  lower, 

That  comforts  her  when  griefs  enfold, 

That  guards  when  foes  would  overpower 

Better  than  Sveaborg  of  old. 

Come  want!  come  all  you  eastern  slaves  here! 

Come  faction,  cast  your  firebrand ! 

'T  is  but  that  we  may  dig  your  graves  here 

By  freedom's  might  on  Svithiod's  strand. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  89 

Karl  Vilhelm  August  Stra?idberg,  1818-1877 

SWEDISH  NATIONAL  HYMN 

l^ET  Swedish  bosoms  deep  and  strong 

In  simple  and  united  song 

Do  honor  to  our  king! 

Be  true  to  him  and  to  his  race, 

Make  hght  his  crown  and  firm  his  place, 

Your  highest  faith  to  do  him  grace, 

O  far-famed  people,  bring! 

O  king,  thy  people's  majesty 

Is  but  as  thine;  we  look  to  thee 

To  guard  it  from  the  foe. 

If  all  the  world  in  battle  came. 

We  should  not  fear  the  threat  of  shame. 

But  make  a  footstool  for  thy  fame 

Of  enemies  brought  low. 

But  if  should  come  our  final  day, 
Then  cast  thy  purple  robe  away. 
Lift  off  thy  burdening  crown. 
Bring  the  old  flag  and  take  command. 
Beneath  its  blue  and  yellow  stand: 
Then  go  thou  forth  with  sword  in  hand 
To  perish  with  renown! 

Ah,  hold  that  glorious  banner  fast. 
Lead  on  thy  people  to  the  last 


90  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

And  boldly  face  the  storm ! 
Thy  faithful  folk  with  hero-mood 
Shall  dye  it  in  their  dearest  blood 
A  royal  purple,  warm  and  good, 
To  wrap  thy  royal  form. 

O  God  in  heaven,  evermore 

Be  with  us  as  Thou  wast  of  yore. 

Inspire  upon  our  strand 

The  ancient  valor  yet  again 

Of  Swedish  monarchs  and  their  men, 

Thy  Spirit  resting  now  as  then 

O'er  all  our  northern  land ! 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  91 

Zakaricis  Topelius,  1818-1898 

MY  MOTHER 

Where  is  the  love  that,  both  soon  and  late, 
Changeless  till  death  in  whatever  fate, 
Guards  like  an  angel  above  us  waking, 
Asking  for  nothing,  but  all  forsaking? 
Go  search  the  earth  and  you  '11  find  but  one  5 
Such  is  a  mother's  deep  love  alone. 

All  bonds  are  selfish  compared  with  this; 

Even  the  rapturous  bridegroom's  kiss. 

The  joy  a  sister's  embrace  affords  us. 

Or  childish  arms  that  are  stretching  towards  us. 

Our  truest  friend  some  return  has  sought. 

Only  a  mother  has  no  such  thought. 

Does  she  recall  through  the  long-past  years 
The  bitter  anguish,  the  streaming  tears. 
Her  youthful  spring  that  was  gone  so  lightly. 
Her  days  of  care  and  her  watchings  nightly, 
All  for  the  child  whom  she  loved  the  more, 
The  more  distress  for  its  joy  she  bore? 

And  who  can  give  what  her  love  imparts?  — 
The  first-born  thoughts  of  our  childish  hearts. 
The  first  faint  prayer  that  the  young  voice  utters. 
Our  pure  first  love  like  a  flame  that  flutters. 


92  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

'T  is  by  her  prompting  we  understand 
Truth,  Virtue,  Freedom,  and  Native  Land. 

And  what  do  we  give  her  throughout  our  lives?  — 

But  grief,  which  tenderly  she  forgives j 

A  lukev/arm  love  that  is  much  divided, 

A  care  that  leaves  her  too  oft  unguided. 

We  bring  no  cheer  as  her  life  decays, 

But  leave  her  lone  in  her  autumn  days. 

Yet  in  her  thought  she  is  with  him  still. 
The  wayward  one  who  would  roam  at  will. 
And  like  a  torch  of  angelic  favor 
Her  prayers  direct  when  our  footsteps  waver; 
Her  Christian  faith  on  our  life's  long  road 
Can  point  the  way  to  a  sure  abode. 

Oh,  may  such  mothers  be  ever  blest! 
In  floods  of  sorrow  how  sweet  to  rest. 
To  find  a  comfort  amid  our  striving. 
And  flee  the  turmoil  of  selfish  living. 
On  such  a  bosom,  secure  from  harm 
Planted  and  cherished  by  kisses  warm ! 

JReward,  O  Most  High,  as  we  never  can ! 
Thy  seed  she  sowed  in  the  growing  man. 
Thy  love  it  is,  O  Most  High,  none  other 
That's  mirrored  clear  in  the  eyes  of  a  mother; 
'Twill  ever  be  like  the  sun's  last  gleam 
When  those  dear  eyes  shall  have  ceased  to  beam. 


ZAKARIAS  TOPELIUS  93 

ROSE-MARIE 

Lone  in  the  wood  she  sang,  the  pretty  Rose-Marie, 
Came  to  the  limpid  brook,  her  picture  there  saw  she; 

Loosened  her  braided  hair, 

Smiled  then  as  springtime  fair: 
Why  art  thou,  brook,  so  glad,  and  all  thy  flowers  so  gay; 

Why  does  the  forest  bright 

Smile  as  with  green  delight. 
Why  is  the  sky  so  blue,  why  do  I  sing  to-day? 

Come,  said  the  brook,  oh,  come,  thou  pretty  Rose-Marie, 

Come  as  the  breezes  come,  that  whisper  light  and  free! 
Sit  here  upon  the  strand. 
Lean  down  and  cool  thy  hand. 

Loosen  thy  shoes  and  lay  thy  small  blue  garters  by. 
Rest  on  the  birch's  root, 
Bathe  there  thy  snow-white  foot. 

Lave  thy  red  cheek.  'Tis  well.  Now, hark  to  my  reply! 

This  makes  me  feel  so  glad,  thou  pretty  Rose-Marie : 
I  am  thy  mirror  now,  and  so  may  look  at  thee. 

Therefore  in  pure  delight 

Blooms  all  the  woodland  bright: 
This  day  our  Rose-Marie  is  turned  of  seventeen. 

Heaven  is  blue  to-day, 

And  thou  dost  sing  so  gay, 
Ay!  for  a  thief  of  hearts  dwells  in  the  forest  green. 


\, 


94  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

THE  MILKY  WAY 

i  HE  lamps  have  been  put  out,  and   now  the   night   is 

hushed  and  clear, 
And  now  do  all  the  memories  of  vanished  days  appear, 
And  tender  legends  flit  about  like  gleams  amid  the  blue. 
Until  with  sad  and  wondrous  joy  the  heart  is  kindled 

too. 

The  limpid  stars  look  downward  in  the  winter  midnight's 

glow 
With  blissful  smile,  as  if  no  death  were  known  on  Earth 

below. 
Can  you  discern  their  silent  speech?  —  I  '11  tell  you,  if 

I  may, 
A  tale  the  stars  once  told  to  me  about  the  Milky  Way. 

Long  since,  upon  a  star  dwelt  he  when  all  the  heavens 

were  bright, 
While  she  dwelt  on  another  orb  in  distant  realms  of 

night. 
The  name  of  her  was  Salami,  and  Zulamith  hight  he. 
And  each  loved  other  with  the  love  of  spirits  pure  and 

free. 

The  two  had  dwelt  before  on  earth  and  loved  each  other 

there. 
But  had  been  parted  by  the  might  of  Sin  and  Death  and 

Care. 


ZAKARIAS  TOPELIUS  95 

Though  shining  wings  were  given  them  when  death's 

repose  was  past, 
Yet  they  were  doomed  to  dwell  on  stars  far-sundered  in 

the  Vast. 

They  thought  of  one  another  still  in  their  blue  homes  on 

high, 
While  measureless  between  them  lay  a  glowing  gulf  of 

sky, 
'Twixt  Salami  and  Zulamith  unnumbered  worlds  were 

spread, 
The  flaming  masterwork  of  Him  whose  hand  hath  all 

things  made. 

Then  Zulamith,  whose  heart  was  nigh  consumed  with 

vain  desire. 
Began  to  build  a  bridge  of  light  across  the  worlds  of  fire. 
And  even  as  did  Zulamith,  so  she  from  her  star's  rim 
Began  to  build  from  pole  to  pole  a  bridge  of  light  to 

him. 

So  for  a  thousand  years  they  built  with  faith  that  naught 
could  stay 

Until  their  starry  bridge  was  done,  the  radiant  Milky 
Way, 

Which  spans  the  highest  vault  of  heaven  above  the  Zo- 
diac's place, 

And  binds  together  shore  with  shore  across  the  sea  of 
Space. 


96  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Then  terror  seized  the  cherubim,  and  God  in  haste  they 
sought: 
"Behold,    O    Lord,    what    Salami    and    Zulamith    have 
wrought!" 
But  God  Almighty  smiled,  and  all  was  bright  with  beams 
of  joy: 
"  What  love  hath  wrought  within  my  realm,  I  never  will 
destroy." 

And  Salami  and  Zulamith,  their  bridge  completed  quite, 
Ran  straight  into  each  other's  arms — and  then  an  orb 

of  light. 
The  fairest  in  the  vault  of  heaven,  appeared  where  they 

had  passed; 
After  a  thousand  years  of  grief  a  heart  had  bloomed  at 

last. 

So  all  who  on  this  darksome  earth  have  loved  with  ten- 
der heart. 

Whom  Sin  and  Sorrow,  Death  and  Night, have  ever  kept 
apart. 

May  build  a  bridge  from  world  to  world,  in  regions  of  the 
blest. 

May  come  unto  the  loved  one's  side,  and  there  at  length 
find  rest. 


ZAKARIAS  TOPELIUS 

LITTLE    MAIA 

JMamma,  as  I  went  out  to-day 

To  school,  my  pockets  laden 
With  nuts,  I  met  upon  the  way 

A  dainty  little  maiden. 
She  looked  as  sweet  as  when  you  bake 
A  little  twist  of  raisin-cake. 

She  had  anemones  in  her  hair, 

A  nosegay  on  her  bosom. 
She  skipped  along  on  tiptoe  there, 

Her  basket  all  a-blossom. 
And  as  she  went,  yet  more  and  more 
Fell  out  the  flowers  that  she  bore. 

She  said:  "Oh,  come  and  play  with  me 

In  yonder  blooming  alley! 
The  lark  is  warbling  there  for  thee. 

The  brook  sings  in  the  valley." 
I  said:  "Not  now;  it  would  be  wrong. 
Because  my  lessons  are  so  long." 

I  asked  her:  "What 's  your  name?"  She  said, 

"Just  Maia;  I've  no  other." 
"Who  's  your  mamma,  a  lady  bred?" 

"A  jackdaw  is  my  mother." 
"Who's  your  papa?"    "The  west  wind  he." 
"Your  sister?"  "  Rose-on-Cheek  is  she." 


97 


98  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

I  asked  then:  "Are  you  poor?"  "How  so? 
The  sun  is  my  grandfather." 
"And  do  you  go  to  school?"  "Oh,  no. 

I  pick  the  flowers  rather." 
"Where  do  you  live?"  "On  all  the  earth." 
"Where  do  you  go?"  "To  the  frozen  north." 

She  gave  a  nod  and  went  her  way 
With  eyes  that  shone  so  brightly. 

I  went  to  school. — Who  is  she,  pray? 
Oh,  can  you  tell  me  rightly  ? 

I've  puzzled  all  day  long  on  it, 

And  lessons  will  not  go  a  bit. 

I  '11  burst,  my  head  's  in  such  a  stir, 

My  thoughts  are  so  unruly. 
But,  mother,  think  if  Maia  were 

The  maid  of  springtime  truly ! 
Ah,  come,  my  little  Maia  fair. 
And  peep  in  at  the  window  there! 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  99 

Viktor  Rydberg,  1828-1895 

VAIN   QUEST  OF  BEAUTY 

JCiXHAUSTLESS,  Nature,  is  thy  patient  mood, 
Yea,  as  the  Deep  from  which  thou  art  renewed. 
May  not  thy  hand  grow  weary  at  the  last 
Of  imitating  on  this  isle  of  Time 
The  patterns  of  a  region  more  sublime. 
When  all  that  loveliness  will  soon  be  past? 
Will  thy  hand  never  falter  or  grow  weak 
Strewing  soft  color  on  an  infant's  cheek 
Or  in  a  flower's  cup,  when  thou  dost  know 
The  hues  must  perish  like  the  sunset's  glow? 
The  tender  ones,  with  beauty  as  of  heaven, 
Bear  to  their  grave  the  gifts  that  thou  hast  given. 

Under  Death's  garland  hast  thou  ever  seen 
On  any  furrowed  brow  the  light  serene 
Of  innocence  thou  pouredst  on  it?  Never, 
Neither  on  man's  nor  yet  on  woman's  ever. 
Thou  bearest  bud  on  bud  in  endless  troop. 
Whose  promise  is  but  born  to  fade  and  droop. 
Thou  weavest;  then  the  web,  for  all  thy  skill. 
Is  rent,  but  never  stands  thy  shuttle  still. 
Strange,  that  thy  strength  has  lasted  till  to-day. 
Thou  from  thy  work-bt-nch  hast  not  shrunk  away 
Despairing  at  the  grim,  unending  play! 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

THE  TWO   BELLS 

1  RANSPARENT  and  ethereal  above  the  Sea  of  Time 
A  tower  all  of  crystal  uprears  its  form  sublime. 
The  walls  of  its  foundation  sink  down  abysmally 
More  deep  than  any  thought  can  reach  or  any  eye  can 
see. 

It  rises  to  the  starry  heavens,  it  pierces  through  and  through, 
Until  it  leaves  the  last  lone  star  behind  it  in  the  blue; 
It  lifts  its  airy  belfry  through  space  to  such  a  height 
That  man's  imagination  reels  in  terror  at  the  flight. 

Two  bells  there  are  suspended  within  that  belfry's  dome. 
The  first  is  wrought  of  dawn-light  that  streamed  ere  day  had 

come. 
It  sways  its  golden  clapper  when  flitting  thoughts  have 

birth. 
And  softly  chimes  in  concord  with  the  breathing  of  the 

Earth. 

But,  though  it  chimes  so  softly,  it  has  a  warning  tone. 
Which  in  a  clear  vibration  sinks  down  from  zone  to  zone. 
And  dies  away  on  earth  here  with  murmur  faint  and  low 
In  the  unrest  of  noble  souls  and  in  the  sunset's  glow. 

How  earnestly,  how  gently  it  prompts  the  chosen  few 
To  dream  high  dreams,  and  strive  then  to  make  those 
dreams  come  true. 


VIKTOR  RYDBERG  loi 

Reminding  them  each  evening  by  sunset's  flaming  spell 
Of  distant,  undiscovered  lands  where  Truth  and  Beauty 
dwell. 

Entreatingly  it  urges  to  haste  the  holy  hour 

When  all  men  shall  be  brothers  through  Love's  uniting 
power, 

When  each  heart  shall  find  comfort  by  soothing  hands  ca- 
ressed, 

Each  weary  head  repose  at  last  on  a  beloved  breast. 

Entreatingly  it  urges  mankind  to  rise  up  strong 

And  join  with  its  pure  accents  in  one  vast  freedom-song. 

To  send   the  joyous   tidings   out  o'er  the  world's   wide 

rim: 
Behold  the  Earth  is  God's  domain,  and  all  men  worship 

Him! 

But  ah !  the  other  bell-form  is  filled  with  molten  gloom 
That  clung  within  the  darkness  of  Chaos'  dismal  womb. 
The  heavy  clapper  moves  not,  all  hushed  and  dumb  its 

might. 
The  hollow  of  the  bell  is  like  the  vaulted  depth  of  night. 

And  just  below  the  belfry  there  sits  in  sombre  thought 
A  demon,  with  his  fingers  around  the  bell-rope  caught. 
Unmoving  as  a  statue,  he  gazes  grimly  down 
On  Time's  loud-roaring  billows  that  go  past  beneath  his 
frown. 


I02         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

The  billows   now  arc  gleaming,  now  shines  the  sun  on 

high,— 
But  should  a  fearsome  blackness  o'ershadow  all  the  sky, 
And  the  last  wave  be  broken  amid  the  weltering  foam 
That  rocked  the  poet's  visioned  hope  of  fairer  life  to  come; 

If  blank  despair  should  fall  on  the  struggling  human  race. 
The  freedom-song  be  silenced  by  cravings  weak  or  base, 
And,  numb  with  cold,  the  heart  of  youth  perceive  without 

a  throe 
The  holy  form  of  Goodness  leave  the  Earth  with  fading 

glow;  — 

Then  sudden  on  the  bell-rope  the  hands  would  clench  more 
tight, 

Then  would  the  demon  tug  there  with  mad  and  fierce  de- 
light, 

The  awful  bell  of  Darkness  would  swing  its  mighty  round. 

And  all  the  trembling  Universe  be  shattered  by  the  sound. 


THE  BATHING  CHILDREN 

C^LUMPS  of  lilies-of-the-valley,  daisies  too  on  either  hand 

Fringe  a  small  transparent  brooklet  gliding  o'er  its  bed  of 
sand; 

Hedges  clad  in  snowy  blossoms  breathe  their  perfume  mani- 
fold. 

Maples  o'er  the  water-lilies  lean  their  boughs  of  green  and 
gold. 


VIKTOR  RYDBERG  103 

Two  small  children,  boy  and  girl,  are  sitting  there  amid 

the  flowers, 
Hawk-and-dove  they  've  been   a-playing  all  the  warm 

long  morning  hours. 
Says  the  boy,  "  I  'm  going  bathing,  it 's  so  hot  here  in  the 

sun." 
"Yes,  the  water's  cool,"  the  girl  says;  "  I  '11  go  bathing 

too.  What  fun!" 

Soon  the  boy  has  cast  his  stockings  and  his  other  clothes 

aside. 
Scattered  on  the  grass  about  him,  though  the  dew  is 

scarcely  dried. 
Pantaloons    with  bright  suspenders  which    his   mother 

made  for  him, 
Though  discarded,  show  the  roundness  of  each    little 

chubby  limb. 

By  this  careless  heap  the  maiden,  far  more  orderly  than  he. 

Lays  her  kerchief,  skirt,  and  bodice,  with  her  linen, 
daintily; 

Lays  on  top  her  summer  bonnet  with  its  ribbons  all 
agleam. 

And  with  shouts  of  joy  the  two  then  jump  into  the  lim- 
pid stream. 

Look!  to  meet  the  merry  children  how  the  brook's  clear 

waters  leap, 
Round  their  fresh  and  lovely  bodies  cuddling  wavelets 

kiss  and  creep; 


I04         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Pearly  drops  fly  all  around  them  high  above  the  stream- 
let's brim 

Where  the  boy  with  glad  endeavor  shows  his  playmate 
how  to  swim. 

If  she  learn,  he  'II  fill  her  basket  full  of  nuts,  a  princely 

treat. 
How  she  sprawls  and  kicks  and  splashes  with  her  plump 

and  dainty  feet! 
How  she  stretches  out   first  one  arm,  then  the  other, 

while  she  rests 
With  the  boy's  firm  hands  upholding  underneath  her 

tender  breasts! 

Meanwhile  from  her  new-built  dwelling  in  a  bending 
maple  tree, 

Twittering,  a  sparrow-mother  spies  the  two,  and  thus 
thinks  she: 
*■*■  Though  they  have  no  wings  to  fly  with,  yet  their  antics 
are  the  same 

As  when  I  and  sparrow-father  played  in  youth  the  splash- 
ing game." 

So  too  when  the  lark  above  them,  poising  on  his  out- 
stretched wing, 

Sees  the  innocents  at  play  there,  loud  his  throbbing  qua- 
vers ring. 

Like  an  echo  of  the  gladness  that  resounded  to  the  skies 

When  the  first  lark  sang  his  rapture  o'er  the  groves  of 
Paradise. 


VIKTOR  RYDBERG  105 

SONG  OF  THE  ATHENIANS 

Cjlorious  is  death,  when  thou  in  the  first  line  gallantly 
fallest, 

Fallest  in  fight  for  thy  land,  diest  for  city  and  home. 

Up,  then,  with  soul  on  fire  to  defend  the  soil  of  thy  fathers, 

Hasten  to  offer  thy  life  gladly  when  opens  the  fray! 

Forward,  young  men,  march  forward  in  close  and  unwav- 
ering order. 

Never  a  tremor  of  fear,  never  a  thought  of  retreat! 

Shamed  and  dishonored  an  army,  when  young  men,  last  in 
the  phalanx. 

Look  on  their  elders  in  front,  see  where  they  bleed  and  are 
slain. 

Ever  the  foremost  place  is  the  place  of  the  youth,  while  he 
weareth 

Still  on  his  lovely  locks  garlanded  flowers  of  spring. 

Fair  unto  women,  and  noble  to  men  in  his  lifetime  he 
seemeth ; 

Beautiful  even  in  death,  slain  in  the  midst  of  the  fight. 

FROM    "DEXU'VOS" 


THY  GRIEF  IS  THINE 

1  Hou  know'st,  O  man,  how  heavy  is  thy  care. 

Seek  not  among  thy  feeble  kind  for  rest! 

Lay  not  thy  grief  on  some  o'erburdened  breast! 
Thy  grief  is  thine,  and  thou  alone  must  bear. 


io6         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 


SNOWFRID 

In  the  evening  dusk  when  the  storm  raged  high 
He  heard  a  voice  at  his  window  cry: 
"Gunnar, 
Now  that  the  billows  rush  over  the  sea, 
Come  show  thy  courage,  and  let  me  try 
If  the  young  hot  blood  in  thy  breast  reply; 
Come  out  on  the  rolling  waves  with  me! 
And  if  no  fear  to  thy  heart  come  nigh, 
Gunnar, 
We'll  steer  for  the  Isle  of  Felicity." 

It  was  Snowfrid : 

Oft  before  in  forest-wildernesses 

He  had  seen  that  loveliest  wood-nymph  bright; 

Her  whose  blue  eyes  glowed  with  starry  light. 

Fair  the  brow  beneath  her  golden  tresses. 

He  hasted  him  out,  she  took  his  hand, 

And  the  two  went  down  to  the  ocean-strand. 

"Snowfrid, 
In  thy  silvery  robe  how  thy  beauty  gleams!" 
The  moon,  which  rose  o'er  the  wood's  gray  band. 
Suffusing  the  clouds  with  its  reddish  beams. 
Lit  the  sails  outspread  at  the  nymph's  command. 
And  the  shallop  sped  forth  in  foam  from  the  land, 

*' Snowfrid, 
We  swing  on  our  way,  O  bride  of  my  dreams!" 


VIKTOR  RYDBERG  107 

At  his  side 

She  could  hear  the  winds  their  sagas  telling, 
Dreamily  could  watch  the  orbed  moon. 
Round  about  the  waves  were  thundering  soon, 
Round  about  the  storm's  loud  wail  was  swelling. 

Now  crashing  seas  o'er  the  bulwarks  fall. 

Before  them  rises  a  headland  tall. 
"Gunnar, 

The  moonlight  shows  us  where  gold  is  stored," 

Thus,  high  on  the  crest  of  the  great  clifF-wall, 

The  little  trolls  tempt  and  beckon  and  call: 
"  Come,  youth,  and  take  here  thy  rich  reward  ! 

Come,  and  no  more  be  Poverty's  thrall ! 

Gunnar, 

Give  us  thy  soul,  and  take  thou  our  hoard!" 

With  whistling  of  air  and  of  flying  spray 

A  raging  host  roars  over  the  bay. 
"Gunnar, 

Now  come  the  giants  in  furious  train!" 

Their  swords  are  flashing,  their  banners  sway, 

A  deafening  homage  their  legions  pay 

To  Alight,  whose  fetters  the  world  enchain. 
"  Give  us  thy  soul,  and  thy  name  for  aye, 

Gunnar, 

Shall  shine  with  glory  in  Honor's  fane." 

But  now  on  an  inlet  the  moonlight  played. 
And  hushed  was  the  roar  the  billows  made. 


io8         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

"Gunnar," 
So  lured  a  voice,  "turn  hither  to  me! 
A  cottage  waits  in  a  forest  glade, 
A  faith  that  never  its  vow  betrayed. 
Here  may'st  thou  dream  by  the  sighing  sea; 
The  fairest  of  arms  around  thee  laid, 
Gunnar, 
Shall  lovingly  weave  thy  destiny." 

But  Snowfrid  raised  herself 
High  in  the  prow: 
"  Better  the  battle's 
Ill-paid  guerdon 
Than  the  sly  dragon's 
Ease  mid  gold-heaps; 
Better  to  die  for 
The  right,  though  scorned, 
Than  to  live  famous 
In  selfish  striving; 
Better  than  peace  is 
The  clasp  of  danger. 
Choosest  thou  me,  thou 
Choosest  the  tempest. 

"Strict  the  runes  of 
The  hero-life. 
Thus  they  bid  thee 
On  evil  giants 
Thy  vengeance  wreak, 


VIKTOR  RYDBERG  109 

Boldly  ofFer 

Thy  blood  for  the  weak, 

Willingly  suffer, 

All  things  forsake, 

Fight  a  hopeless  fight, 

And  nameless  die. 

"That  is  life's  true  hero-song. 
Seek  not  the  Isle  of  Felicity!" 
With  that  she  was  gone, 
Lost  in  a  fog-wreath  suddenly. 
O'er  the  billowy  desert  he  sailed  alone. 

Gunnar,  youth! 

Many  a  purpose  toward  the  grave  may  speed  thee, 

If  of  these  thou  choose  the  warrior's  way. 

Through  unrest,  and  grief,  and  change  't  will  lead  thee, 

And  in  mists  of  doubt  thy  feet  will  stray. 

Weary,  lone. 

Must  he  fight  who  with  his  shield  would  cover 

Those  too  weak  to  face  the  harsh  world's  wrath, 

And  the  nearer  heaven  his  hopes  would  hover. 

By  so  much  the  harder  is  his  path. 

But,  O  youth. 

Thou  may'st  see  the  nymph  whom  thou  adorest. 

If  to  thy  best  dreams  thy  heart  be  true; 

Ye  may  sport  as  erstwhile  in  the  forest. 

She  may  sing  thee  songs  of  comfort  too. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

And  for  thee 

Ope  the  door  of  boyhood-memory's  garden, 
When  thou  turnest  there  to  rest  from  strife, 
Where  in  Ida's  vale  the  Norn  is  warden 
O'er  the  dawn-gold  tables  of  thy  life. 


LONGING 

JrdE  longs  with  a  tireless  yearning, 
Still  seeking,  wandering,  turning 

At  all  times  and  everywhere, 
The  sought-for  goal  receding, 
Flitting,  enticing,  leading 

With  shifting  likeness  fair. 

A  nodding  flower  of  azure 
Above  the  field's  ripe  treasure 

First  lures  the  wanderer  on. 
But  when  he  would  stoop  to  pick  it, 
It  sinks  in  the  billowy  thicket 

Of  rye-blades  and  is  gone. 

A  banner  all  golden-rifted. 
That  spirit  hands  have  lifted, 

On  sunset  towers  upborne. 
An  echo  resounding  faintly, 
That's  blown  from  an  old  and  quaintly 

Wrought  silver  legend-horn. 


VIKTOR  RYDBERG  m 

An  organ-rapture  outpouring 
From  some  great  cathedral  soaring 

Mid  streets  where  visions  dwell. 
The  blow  of  a  hammer  thund'rous 
When  angels  rear  a  wondrous 

Dream-lovely  citadel. 

A  sighing  of  ocean  surges 
When  dawn's  first  wave  emerges 

On  night's  pale  galaxy. 
He  listens  and  looks  with  yearning, 
Still  this  way  and  that  way  turning 

To  find  what  it  may  be. 

A  sea  to  which  years  run  lightly, 
A  river  that  mirrors  brightly 

The  spring  and  its  beauties  rare. 
Beside  whose  waters  haunted 
Two  mortals  languish  enchanted 

And  see  but  each  other  there. 

The  river  hastes  from  the  flowers 
To  autumn's  golden  bowers, 

And  whirls  the  dry  leaves  they  wore 
To  ocean,  the  dark  Unbounded. 
The  wanderer,  staring  astounded, 

Asks:  "What  of  the  farther  shore?" 

Perhaps  his  desire  is  bended 
On  something;  uncomprehended. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Which  no  man  may  comprehend  j 
But  he  must  ever  be  yearning, 
Must  ever  be  wandering,  turning, 

And  seeking  it  without  end. 

And  should  he  reach  World's  Ending, 
With  no  road  further  tending. 

The  border  of  Nothingness, 
He'd  bend  him  over  the  steep  there 
And  gaze  into  the  deep  there 

With  straining-eyed  distress. 

And  leaning  over  the  steep  there, 
He'd  cry  into  the  deep  there, — 

That  echoless,  vast  Untrod, — 
And  onward  the  shout  should  go  where 
Is  naught  but  the  voice  of  Nowhere, 

Go  ringing  through  Chaos :  "  God ! " 


SHIPWRECK 

i~lE  built  of  his  dawn-bright  dreaming 

A  pennoned  vessel  free. 
In  which  to  sail  o'er  the  gleaming 

Expanse  of  the  mighty  sea. 

He  built  with  eager  endeavor, 

For  murmuring  waves  on  the  strand 

Kept  whispering  to  him  ever 
Strange  tales  of  a  far-off  land. 


VIKTOR  RYDBERG  113 

A  mist-glimmer  oft  suggested 

A  palm-bordered  island  dim, 
A  sound  as  of  spirits  that  feasted 

Was  borne  from  the  west  to  him. 

But  when  he  would  fain  be  faring 

A-sway  on  the  rhythmic  surge, 
He  suddenly  saw  a  glaring 

White  flash  from  the  heavens  emerge; 

Saw  clouds  like  a  line  of  battle 

To  south  and  to  east,  he  caught 
The  voice  of  the  storm's  loud  rattle 

With  din  as  of  weapons  fraught; 

He  saw  dark  squadrons  of  men  on 

The  march  at  the  thunder's  beat 
To  fling  down  his  pretty  pennon 

And  trample  it  under  their  feet. 

But  the  hour  claimed  his  devotion; 

Though  heavy  his  heart,  he  gave 
His  little  ship  to  the  ocean 

To  speed  before  wind  and  wave. 

He  went  to  the  fight,  which  wavered 

All  day  mid  the  surf's  mad  throes; 
The  hero  it  sometimes  favored. 

Then  favored  in  turn  his  foes. 


114        ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

When  the  sun  from  the  sky  hath  hasted, 
He  stands  by  the  sea  once  more, 

His  strand  by  the  storm  is  wasted. 
His  wounds  are  bleeding  sore. 

The  sky  is  darkening  o'er  him, 
The  black  waves  come  and  go, 

They  leave  on  the  sands  before  him 
Here  and  there  a  shred  or  so 

Of  his  dawn-bright  youthful  dreaming. 
Of  his  little  wave-shattered  ship, 

Which  should  have  sailed  o'er  the  gleaming 
Blue  deep  on  its  maiden  trip. 


THE  HOUSE-GOBLIN 

TOMTEN 

Cold  is  the  night,  and  still,  and  strange, 
Stars  they  glitter  and  shimmer. 
All  are  asleep  in  the  lonely  grange 
Under  the  midnight's  glimmer. 
On  glides  the  moon  in  gulfs  profound; 
Snow  on  the  firs  and  pines  around. 
Snow  on  the  roofs  is  gleaming. 
All  but  the  goblin  are  dreaming. 

Gray  he  stands  at  the  barnyard  door, 
Gray  by  the  drifts  of  white  there, 


VIKTOR  RYDBERG  115 

Looks,  as  oft  he  has  looked  before, 

Up  at  the  moon  so  bright  there; 

Looks  at  the  woods,  where  the  fir-trees  tall 

Shut  the  grange  in  with  their  dusky  wall; 

Ponders  —  some  problem  vexes, 

Some  strange  riddle  perplexes  — 

Passes  his  hand  o'er  beard  and  hair, 
Shaking  his  head  and  cap  then: 
"Nay,  that  riddle's  too  hard,  I  swear, 
I  '11  ne'er  guess  it  mayhap  then." 
But,  as  his  wont  is,  he  soon  drives  out 
All  such  thoughts  of  disturbing  doubt. 
Frees  his  old  head  of  dizziness. 
And  turns  him  at  once  to  business. 

First  he  tries  if  the  locks  are  tight. 

Safe  against  every  danger. 

Each  cow  dreams  in  the  pale  moonlight 

Summer  dreams  by  her  manger. 

Dobbin,  forgetful  of  bits  that  gall. 

Dreams  like  the  cows  in  his  well-filled  stall, 

Leaning  his  neck  far  over 

Armfuls  of  fragrant  clover. 

Then  through  the  bars  he  sees  the  sheep. 
Watches  how  well  they  slumber. 
Eyes  the  cock  on  his  perch  asleep. 
Round  him  hens  without  number. 


ii6         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Carlo  wakes  at  the  goblin's  tread, 
Wags  then  his  tail  and  lifts  his  head; 
Well  acquainted  the  two  are, 
Friends  that  both  tried  and  true  are. 

Last  the  goblin  slips  in  to  see 
How  all  the  folk  are  faring. 
Long  have  they  known  how  faithfully 
He  for  their  weal  is  caring. 
Treading  lightly  on  stealthy  toes. 
Into  the  children's  room  he  goes, 
Looks  at  each  tiny  treasure: 
That  is  his  greatest  pleasure. 

So  has  he  seen  them,  sire  and  son, 

Year  by  year  in  that  room  there 

Sleep  first  as  children  every  one. 

Ah,  but  whence  did  they  come  there  ? 

This  generation  to  that  was  heir. 

Blossomed,  grew  old,  and  was  gone — but  where? 

That  is  the  hopeless,  burning 

Riddle  ever  returning. 

Back  to  the  barn  he  goes  to  rest. 

Where  he  has  fixed  his  dwelling 

Up  in  the  loft  near  the  swallow's  nest. 

Sweet  there  the  hay  is  smelling. 

Empty  the  swallow's  nest  is  now. 

Back  though  he  '11  come  when  the  grass  and  bough 


VIKTOR  RYDBERG  117 

Bud  in  the  warm  spring  weather, 
He  and  his  mate  together. 

Always  they  twitter  away  about 
Places  through  which  they  've  travelled, 
Caring  naught  for  the  goblin's  doubt. 
Though  it  were  ne'er  unravelled. 
Through  a  chink  in  one  of  the  walls 
Moonlight  on  the  old  goblin  falls, 
White  o'er  his  beard  it  wanders; 
Still  he  puzzles  and  ponders. 

Forest  and  field  are  silent  all, 
Frost  their  whole  life  congealing. 
Save  that  the  roar  of  the  waterfall 
Faintly  from  far  is  stealing. 
Then  the  goblin,  half  in  a  dream. 
Thinks  it  is  Time's  unpausing  stream. 
Wonders  whither  't  is  going. 
And  from  what  spring  't  is  flowing. 

Cold  is  the  night,  and  still,  and  strange. 
Stars  they  glitter  and  shimmer. 
All  yet  sleep  in  the  lonely  grange 
Soundly  till  morn  shall  glimmer. 
Now  sinks  the  moon  in  night  profound; 
Snow  on  the  firs  and  pines  around, 
Snow  on  the  roofs  is  gleaming. 
All  but  the  goblin  are  dreaming. 


ii8         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 


CANTATA 

FOR   THE   GRADUATION    FESTIVAL  AT   UPSALA, 
THE  SIXTH   OF  SEPTEMBER,  1877 

Chorus 

Jr  ROM  the  dark  of  the  ages  gliding 

Toward  a  goal  unknown  to  thee, 
Through  the  desert  thou  hast  been  striding 

Long,  long,  O  Humanity! 
Thy  day  is  only  a  glimmer 

Of  feeble  and  pallid  light, — 
Before,  the  mist  is  yet  dimmer; 

Behind  is  the  void  of  night. 
The  armies  with  which  thou  farest 

Droop  earthwards  day  by  day, 
And,  trembling,  thou  nigh  despairest: 
"Almighty,  whither  leads  the  way?" 

What  sight  upon  Earth  reveals  not 

That  all  things  earthly  fade  like  grass; 
Look  upward,  and  Heaven  conceals  not 

That  even  there  the  glories  pass,  — 
That  suns  in  those  lofty  regions 

Are  halted  or  cease  to  be. 
And  quenched  are  the  starry  legions 

In  the  aether's  unmeasured  sea. 
Thou  hearest  how  voices  lonely 

Cry:  "All  is  transient  here, 


VIKTOR   RYDBERG  119 

And  Time  and  Space  are  only 

A  mighty  prison  dark  and  drear." 

Recitative 
And  yet,  though  thou  be  sunken  deep  in  doubt 

And  tarriest  brooding  by  the  road,  anon 
Thou  tak'st  again  thy  banner  with  a  shout 

And  through  the  desert  bear'st  it  boldly  on. 
What  matter  if  a  thousand  suns  are  thrown 

To  Chaos  from  their  firmament  sublime? 
What  though  a  starry  harvest  lieth  mown 

Like  golden  grain  beneath  the  scythe  of  Time? 
Thy  noble  thoughts,  thy  acts  of  love,  thy  dreams 

Of  beauty — these  Time  never  can  devour; 
Eternity  like  some  great  store-house  teems 

With  sheaves  safe-garnered  from  destruction's 
power. 
Go  forth.  Mankind!  be  glad,  thy  cares  at  rest, 
Thou  bear'st  Eternity  within  thy  breast. 

Arioso 
Every  soul  that,  yearning,  gloweth 

Toward  The  Good  unceasingly 
In  its  inmost  being  knoweth 

Proof  of  immortality. 
Let  thy  selfishness  be  chidden. 
Let  God's  image  in  thee  hidden 

Toward  His  perfect  likeness  tend 


I20         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

With  each  age  and  generation, 

So  shalt  thou  through  desolation 

Win  to  Jordan  at  the  end. 

Chorus 
Let  thy  selfishness  be  chidden, 
Let  God's  image  in  thee  hidden 

Toward  His  perfect  likeness  tend 
With  each  age  and  generation. 
So  shalt  thou  through  desolation 

Win  to  Jordan  at  the  end. 

Theology 

(ExoJ.  17.    I  Cor.  10 :  4) 
iJosT  thou  doubt  that  in  the  distance  waits  for  thee  the 

Promised  Land  ? 
Dost  thou  faint  with  thirst  and  hunger,  hopeless  mid  the 

burning  sand  ? 
See!  the  rod  of  Moses  smiteth,  from  the  rock  the  waters 

well. 
On,  Mankind,  across  the  desert,  on,  thou  greater  Israel! 
Still  hast  thou  the  rod  to  smite  with  and  thy  bitter  thirst 

allay; 
And  the  Rock — oh,  glorious  marvel!  —  follows  ever  on 

thy  way. 
Bend  thy  knee  above  the  fountain,  let  its  pure  transparent 

wave 
Cool  thee,  and  go  on  rejoicing  in  the  wondrous  strength 

it  gave! 


VIKTOR  RYDBERG  izi 

Jurisprudence 

{ExoJ.  1 9) 

As  before  the  hot  simoon  the  clouds  of  dust  are  whirled 
along, 

So  the  Tribes  of  Israel  drifted  forth  from  Horeb  in  a 
throng. 

Can  they  ever  reach  the  Jordan,  marching  thus  in  dis- 
array ? 

See!  Mount  Sinai  lifts  its  summit  heavenward  where  the 
lightnings  play! 

Hill  and  vale  resound  with  thunder  at  the  voice  of  Justice 
then. 

And  each  man's  astounded  bosom  echoes  back  a  deep 
"Amen!" 

So  the  straggling  ranks  take  order  by  the  Law's  divine  com- 
mands, 

Grown  into  a  glorious  people  bound  in  one  by  sacred 
bands. 

Medicine 

{Num.  21:6) 

W ITH  the  Law's  high  tabernacle  now  they  march  unitedly. 
Making  way  through  hostile  weapons  toward  the  Land  of 

Liberty. 
But  what  strikes  the  troops  with  pallor?  Wherefore  did  the 

banner  sink? 
Dread,  insidious  fever-serpents  through  the  stricken  army 

slink. 


122  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

What  can  save  them?  This  can  save  them.  See  the  token 
sent  of  God, 

See  thegleamingbrazen  serpent  coiled  around  the  Prophet's 
rod! 

And  as,  rescued  by  that  symbol,  Israel  sought  the  path  to 
find, 

So  do  ye,  O  strengthened  nations,  seek  the  goal  of  all  man- 
kind! 

Philosophy 

{Exod.  13:  2  1.  Deut.  34) 

i*  ORTH,  O  wise  and  lovely  peoples,  to  the  goal  which  God 

hath  placed ! 
Ah,  but  how  discern  the  pathway  mid  the  phantoms  of  the 

waste  1 
See,  a  fiery  pillar  leads   us  when   the  shadows  dim  the 

light! 
'T  is  the  glow  of  Thought  that  shineth  as  a  beacon  in  the 

night. 
Through  the  noon-tide  haze  before  us  goes  a  cloud-white 

pillar  fair. 
Woven  all  of  pure  ideals,  and  God's  spirit  dwelleth  there. 
Last,  a  poet-seer  on  Nebo  shouts  exulting  from  the  peak, 
"Look,  our  Father's  home  is  yonder!  Forward  to  the  land 

ye  seek!" 


VIKTOR  RYDBERG  123 

PSYCHE 

Ah!  poor  Psyche,  born  mid  shadows  in  this  earthly  vale 

of  strife, 
Long'st  thou  for  ideal  beauty,  for  a  free  and  radiant  life? 
Yearn'st  thou  for  a  heavenly  bridegroom?   Hapless  child, 

where  leads  thy  way? 
Will  thy  faint  hope  fail  or  will  it  reach  the  world  of  Bliss- 

for-Aye  ? 

That 's  the  riddle  that  besets  thee,  in  the  darkness  dim- 
descried. 

Whispering:  "Trust  thou  and  imagine,  that  is  joy,  O 
lovely  bride!" 

Thou,  too  bold,  art  not  contented:  -thou  wilt  see  and  thou 
wilt  know. 

Well,  thou  seest  —  thy  fortune  vanished,  and  thou  know'st 
— thy  heart's  deep  woe. 

Was  that  sinful  thou  didst  long  for?  No,  if  thou  with  stead- 
fast strength 

Darest  all  for  what  thou  lovest,  crossing  Death's  black 
flood  at  length 

In  the  search  thy  duty  urges,  thou  may'st  bring  to  light 
again 

From  the  midst  of  Hades'  horrors  proof  thy  hope  is  not  in 
vain. 


124         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

So,  then,  Psyche,  one  must  journey  to  Olympus'  shining 

height. 
For  no  untried  mortal  ever  may  attain  the  gods'  delight. 
Eros'  arms  and  cup  of  nectar  filled  with  joy  that  never 

dies 
Are  but  for  a  full  devotion  shrinking  from  no  sacrifice. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  125 

King  Oscar  II,  1829-1907 

HOIST  THE  FLAG! 

JrlOlST  the  flag  to  world-wide  admiration 

Till  aloft  it  proudly  flies ! 
Heroes,  lower  swords  in  salutation! 

Memories  and  hopes,  arise 

With  that  banner  to  the  skies! 

See  yon  cross  there  gleaming  ever  brighter, 

Honor's  gold  on  faith's  fair  blue! 
'Tis  the  ancient  sign  to  each  good  fighter, 

Victory  is  still  his  due 

While  in  God  his  cause  is  true. 

Triple  dragon-tongues  on  high  advancing, 

Which  the  viking  vessels  bore. 
From  your  lofty  mast  be  ever  glancing 

On  the  ocean's  azure  floor. 

Tokening  the  deeds  of  yore! 

Noble  memories  have  fixed  their  dwelling 

In  our  ensign  and  our  folk. 
Of  achievements  in  far  countries  telling. 

Lands  that  bowed  them  to  our  yokej 

Still  those  tales  our  pride  evoke. 


126         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Hail,  thou  witness  of  our  ancient  glory! 
Hail,  our  friend  in  joy  and  pain! 

Hail  thou  too,  O  ancient  Swedish  story. 
Which  in  many  a  deadly  fray 
Taught  us  ne'er  to  feel  dismay ! 

Wave,  O  faithful  flag,  let  men  behold  thee 

Ever  honored,  ever  feared ! 
May'st  thou  still  with  colors  brave  unfold  thee 

Where  blue  billows  are  upreared. 

Free  and  to  the  end  revered ! 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  127 

Albert  Teodor  Gellerstedt,  1836-1914 

FOREGROUND  AND  BACKGROUND 

You  may  fill  the  foreground  with  common  stuff, — 
I  take  no  offence,  it  is  well  enough; 
But  in  the  background  I  want  the  light 
Of  some  blue  crest  on  an  unknown  height. 

And  through  the  murmur  of  idle  chat, 
Of  laughter  and  strife  about  this  and  that, 
I  long  for  a  bell-tone  deep  and  grand 
To  tell  of  rest  in  a  better  land. 


MY  BELIEF 

A.  SUDDEN  hush  of  silence 

When  festive  mirth  runs  high 

Some  people  say  betokens 
An  angel  passing  by. 

But  I  believe  that  angels 

In  throngs  draw  nigh  to  hear, 

When  honest  folk  are  merry 

And  laugh  with  right  good  cheer. 


128         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

ISOLATION 

Little  island,  you  may  fancy 
You  're  alone.  It  so  might  seem. 

But  a  thing  so  isolated 

Scarce  could  prosper,  one  would  deem. 

To  the  mainland's  golden  gardens 
And  its  forests  filled  with  song 

You  are  bound  beneath  the  waters 
By  a  power  deep  and  strong. 

And  the  strait  that  seems  to  sever 
From  the  turmoil  of  the  shore. 

See  where  heaven  over-arching 
Shines  reflected  on  its  floor! 


THERE  IS  A  LADDIE 

1  HERE  is  a  laddie,  and  mine  is  he, 
A  merry  laddie  and  fine  to  see. 

And  he  has  promised  me  ring  and  troth. 
And  he  '11  build  a  warm  nest  to  hold  us  both. 

And  so  with  hand  and  with  lips  vowed  I 
To  be  his  own  till  the  day  I  die. 


ALBERT  TEODOR  GELLERSTEDT  129 

I  '11  tell  you,  birch-tree  with  smooth  white  bark, 
And  you,  big  fir-tree  of  hue  so  dark, 

And  you,  little  flowers  that  gleam  with  dew, 
And  you,  ye  wavelets  so  bright  and  blue. 

But  silence!  all  of  you.  Don't  forget 
It  must  n't  come  to  be  talked  of  yet. 

For  only  God  in  the  sky  may  know, 
And  not  a  soul  in  the  town  below. 


I30 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 


Count  Carl  Snoi/sky,  1841-1903 

INTRODUCTORY  SONG 
A^  TO  "travel  scenes" 

1  STAND  with  roses  beside  the  highway, 
I  pour  you  beakers  of  foaming  wine; 

On  every  path  and  on  every  by-way 
I  rouse  the  tambour  to  rapture  fine. 

No  vapid  fictions  of  dream  I  bring  you, 
No  empty  visions  for  your  behoof; 

The  world  of  beauty  I  fain  would  sing  you 
My  own  five  senses  have  put  to  proof. 

Ye  learned  sages,  ye  over-cunning. 

The  wares  I  have  to  your  taste  are  few. 

You,  heart  of  twenty  with  blood  warm-running. 
My  song  will  surely  accord  with  you. 

Come,  heart  that  thrills  in  its  every  fibre. 
That  loves  a  tale  when  'tis  briefly  told; 

Follow  to  Brent,  yea,  and  to  the  Tiber, 
Whenever  the  North  may  seem  too  cold. 

Yon  land  in  truth  is  an  Eden  Garden, 
Where  kindly  summer  abides  for  aye. 

Save  that  no  surly  old  angel-warden 
Drives  happy  sinners  from  bliss  away. 


COUNT  CARL  SNOILSKY  131 

Come,  let  's  be  ofF  then,  come,  let 's  be  flying. 
Hasting  the  snows  from  our  feet  to  shake. 

Soon,  on  a  hillside  of  Como  lying, 

You  '11  see  the  rainbow  above  the  lake. 

Hark  to  the  organ's  reverberation 

Poured  forth  from  Milan's  cathedral  fane! 

But  thank  God  also  with  jubilation 

For  freedom  won  on  Magenta's  plain. 

Let  no  suggestion  of  sorrow  menace. 
Though  joy  now  visits  not  Brent  at  all. 

Free  is  Milan,  free  will  be  Venice 

When  freedom's  red  seed  again  shall  fall. 

Pass  on  to  Rome  then,  the  ancient  mother. 
But  do  not  gaze  there  on  barren  space; 

Nay,  mid  the  ruins  devise  another 
And  better  Capitol  in  its  place. 

Those  antique  earthen  and  golden  vases, 
Of  what  real  use  is  their  musty  lore? 

The  sword  that  now  at  Caprera  blazes 

Can  teach  a  lesson  that 's  worth  far  more. 

Let  connoisseurs  make  imposing  stories 

Of  torso  this  or  group  that  again. 
I  saw  in  streets  there  the  old-time  glories 

In  living  women  and  living  men. 


132  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

In  praising  statues  I  '11  rival  no  man  — 
From  most  an  arm  or  a  leg  is  gone;  — 

I  only  know  that  the  fairest  woman 

Is  one  that  was  never  wrought  in  stone. 

Though  not  a  guide  or  an  antiquary, 

I  know  where  one  in  warm  smiles  may  bask; 

By  Naples'  groves  in  the  moonlight  tarry, — 
For  favors  there  you  need  hardly  ask. 

You  '11  see  Vesuvius,  high  upsending 

Its  clouds  of  smoke  in  the  bright  blue  air; 

With  sunburnt  girls,  who  the  vines  are  tending, 
Wash  down  your  surplus  of  knowledge  there. 

Ay,  let  us  hasten  there,  let  us  spring  there 
Like  wanton  colts  filled  with  pure  delight! 

Hark!  flutes  invisible  pipe  and  sing  there 

From  breeze,  from  billow,  from  dale  and  height. 

Ah,  what  my  poor  heart  has  suffered!  —  Fie  on 
Dress  coats  and  nonsense  and  vanity! 

Leap  out,  leap  out  from  your  cage,  my  lion. 
And  smite  around  you  with  savage  glee. 

Ay,  let 's  be  joyous,  our  heart-beats  hushing 
Where  roses  fade  in  the  twilight  gray ; 

Though  one  next  morning  must  needs  be  blushing 
For  godlike  blisses  of  yesterday. 


COUNT  CARL  SNOILSKY  133 

To-day  it  may  be  a  few  will  heed  me, 
Although  my  tenor  be  weak  and  thin^ 

But  soon  a  stronger  will  supersede  me 
And  I  shall  cease  when  his  notes  begin. 

To-morrow  men  may  forget  completely 

My  little  poem,  whose  melody 
Like  a  small  fountain  is  playing  sweetly 

In  sunlit  confident  ecstasy. 

Come  pluck  my  roses  beside  the  highway, 
And  lean  your  lips  to  my  foaming  wine! 

On  every  path  and  on  every  by-way 
I  rouse  my  tambour  to  rapture  fine. 


APHRODITE  AND  THE  KNIFE-GRINDER 

(two  statues  in  the  tribuna  hall  of 

THE   UFFIZI   gallery)  fj 

JriERE  in  this  glowing  hall  of  treasures  '  '-' K^-^-'f*^ 

An  unknown  force  keeps  drawing  me  /)         /    ■ 

To  thee,  celestial  Aphrodite,  yt<^V^-^^C 

And,  dusky  Knife-Grinder,  to  thee.  '         ' 


How  is  it  ye  are  such  near  neighbors, — 
I  've  often  puzzled  what  it  meant, — 

Thou,  the  all-wondrous  Queen  of  Beauty, 
And  thou,  plebeian,  coarse  and  bent? 


^yMuuaJ ' 


134         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Ah,  loveliness  of  form  but  dwells  with 

Its  opposite  in  halls  of  Art, 
As  in  the  world  the  life  of  Beauty 

With  Toil  and  Pain,  its  counterpart. 

Dame  Aphrodite  shuts  her  ears  to 
All  sounds  that  do  not  harmonize, 

Her  skin  of  alabaster  shivers 

When  aught  that 's  ugly  meets  her  eyes. 

The  World,  which  struggles,  fights,  and  suffers, 
Is  hushed  before  her  haughty  feet, 

As  on  her  native  isle  of  Cyprus 
Unheard  the  muffled  billows  beat. 

Not  for  the  strife  of  clay-born  creatures 

She  leaves  her  cold  security; 
One  law  she  knows — the  Law  of  Beauty, 

One  goal  —  her  own  fair  destiny. 

Her  way  fits  well  with  that  of  mortals 

Who  polish  every  line  uncouth 
Of  Life's  deep-furrowed  pain  and  passion 

Till  all  at  last  is  marble-smooth. 

A  gulf  divides  her  from  yon  fellow. 
The  thrall  her  neighbor  bending  here 

Above  his  knife,  that  is  not  sharpened, 

Though  't  'as  been  ground  a  thousand  year. 


COUNT  CARL  SNOILSKY  135 

As  she  from  sea-foam  rainbow-tinted, 
So  he  is  sprung  from  common  earth; 

With  sweat  and  blood  the  soil  was  leavened 
From  which  his  giant  form  had  birth. 

Look  at  his  great  rough  thews,  his  muscles 
Gnarled  by  the  fate  he  needs  must  face; 

Look  at  his  hand,  which  toil  has  twisted 
So  far  from  beauty  and  from  grace! 

An  exhortation  hovers  o'er  him, 

A  half-born  thought,  a  broken  tone: 
"Arise,  thou  yoke-tormented  being. 

The  earth  thou  stand'st  on  is  thine  own!" 

Each  elemental  force  unbridled 
Incites  and  tempts  the  giant  on: 
"Take  our  example,"  says  their  roaring. 
But  woe  to  us!  if  that  were  done. 

Is  there  no  Bridge-of-Reconciling, 

Can  none  between  such  neighbors  be? 

Will  she,  the  proud  one,  never  soften 
And  go  to  him  with  sympathy? 

Will  Beauty,  from  the  People  severed, 

Go  on  thus  with  her  selfish  life? 
Will  never  he  who  kneels  beside  her 

Be  done  with  grinding  at  his  knife? 


136         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Step  down,  O  Art,  our  Aphrodite, 
From  thy  cold  height  to  his  relief. 

And  let  thy  stone-hard  heart  be  melted 
To  learn  of  human  joy  and  grief! 

Descend  in  love  unto  thy  brother 
To  loosen  Labor's  galling  band, 

To  dry  the  sweat  from  ofF  his  forehead 
And  wrench  the  dagger  from  his  hand! 


OLD   CHINA 

A.  GREAT  collector  was  the  Saxon  king, 

His  craze  for  china  had  some  bounds,  until 

He  sent  his  royal  guard  to  do  the  will 

Of  Prussia's  lord  —  to  get  a  bowl  of  Ming! 

Five  hundred  men  with  guns  and  swords  to  swing, 
Such  could  the  Prussian  use  with  right  good  skill: 
Men  supple  in  manoeuvre,  deft  in  drill. 
In  war  a  wall  —  for  that  blue  Chinese  thing! 

Five  hundred  men  with  all  their  gear  intact! 

Why,  since  the  world  began,  so  mad  an  act  — 
No  doubt  you  all  agree  —  was  heard  of  never. 

Since  then  a  generation  has  passed  o'er: 

Five  hundred  gallant  hearts  now  beat  no  more: 
The  ancient  bowl — 't  is  there  as  good  as  ever. 


COUNT  CARL  SNOILSKY  137 

EDELWEISS 

(  > 

On  peaks  where  the  clouds  have  sifted  a. 

Their  snows  o'er  the  naked  ground,  ,  j    j^^  .     U  ] 

Where  no  blade  of  grass  is  lifted, 

And  no  Alpine  rose  is  found, — 
Pure  white  in  those  dreary  spaces, 

A  flower  blooms  mid  the  ice. 
The  crags  all  its  life  it  graces. 

And  men  call  it  edelweiss. 

When  Autumn's  wild  blasts  are  killing 

All  flowers  in  zones  less  rare, 
With  frost-cruel  fingers  chilling 

The  cheeks  that  are  blooming  there. 
When  roses  their  heads  have  bended 

And  strewn  their  last  leaves  below, 
When  Beauty's  long  reign  is  ended. 

The  edelweiss  blooms  in  snow. 

Yon  flower  in  truth  must  cherish 

A  love  of  no  common  worth. 
That  lives  when  all  else  doth  perish 

And  Beauty  has  passed  from  earth. 
Her  love  from  that  rocky  summit 

Looks  down  on  the  fading  rose; 
Yet  never  can  ice  benumb  it. 

It  blooms  till  her  life  shall  close. 


138  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

J' 

\    t/-  '^^^  PORCELAIN  FACTORY 

\  v^        ■*•  HERE  at  the  factory  I  like  to  see 

porcelain  workers  bending  busily 
turn  the  pliant  clay  on  restless  wheels, 
g  or  plate  at  length  its  form  reveals. 

More  than  wrought  silver  do  you  win  my  praise, 
You  jug  but  destined  for  a  plain  white  glaze. 
More  than  a  vessel  made  for  some  rich  lord 
I  reverence  you,  plate  for  a  meagre  board. 

You  I  respect,  O  unpretentious  mould, 
That  shortly,  reproduced  a  thousand-fold. 
Will  pass  in  artisan's  or  peasant's  nest. 
When  labor  takes  a  scanty  meal-time  rest. 

I  'm  sick  of  all  the  useless  gaudy  wares, 
For  whose  vain  beauty  no  one  really  cares; 
But  hail  the  hand  whose  cunning  is  bestowed 
On  weary  workers  in  a  mean  abode ! 

Yes,  hail  the  unknown  hand,  and  hail  to  him 
That  formed  the  homely  beaker,  to  whose  brim 
A  warm  and  thirsty  mouth  in  haste  will  glide, 
When  the  worn  tools  are  laid  an  hour  aside! 

The  hand  whose  work  we  pass  and  never  see 
Is  far  more  indispensable  than  we, 


COUNT  CARL  SNOILSKY  139 

Mere  bubble-blowers  of  high-sounding  words 

At  play  by  culture's  overladen  boards. 

Ah,  that  a  man  might  mould  a  poem  so, 
Of  simple  words  that  every  one  should  know, 
Might  shape  a  form  for  offering  daily  bread 
To  hungry  folk,  not  to  the  overfed! 

Ah,  would  that  I  might  make,  on  such  a  plan, 

A  cup  to  suit  the  mouth  of  every  man. 

Which,  brimming  from  the  well  of  Time,  might  long 

Give  drink  to  thousands  thirsting  after  song! 


^a>A-;^^«U4^ 


t 


U^^r^^ 


SORRENTO 

1  SING  of  the  cliffs  that  descend  to 

The  bay  lying  blue  at  their  foot  lUxA^^^^' 

And  see  in  the  waters  they  bend  to  ^tVTH*''^^' 

Their  gardens  all  golden  with  fruit;  /        I            ^ 

Of  pines,  too,  their  perfume  out-sending 

From  cloud-covered  peaks  far  away. 
Of  landscapes  where  colors  are  blending 

Afresh  every  hour  of  the  day. 

Sorrento,  thou  beautiful  charmer. 

Thy  musical  name  I  adore. 
Like  winds  in  the  leafage  that  murmur 

And  ripples  that  lapse  on  the  shore. 


140         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

All  griefs  that  my  forehead  would  furrow 
Must  fade  when  I  think  upon  thee; 

No  thorn  shall  afflict  me  with  sorrow 
Since  thou  wert  a  rose  unto  me. 

How  gladly  does  memory,  straying, 
Recall  thee  when  clouds  were  aglow: 

A  breeze  in  the  branches  was  playing 
Till  oranges  tumbled  below. 

I  stood  in  the  shade,  with  the  bay-line 
Curved  wide  in  a  circle  beneath: 

There  Ischia  loomed  in  a  gray  line. 
Yon  smoke  was  Vesuvius'  breath. 

I  took  out  my  poet  Saturnian, — 
My  Horace,  the  bard  of  good  cheer, 

Whose  verses  of  girls  and  Falernian 
Well  fitted  when  vineyards  were  near. 

The  cares  of  my  former  existence. 
How  weak  now  their  hold  upon  me! 

Like  valley-mist  faint  in  the  distance 
I  saw  them  grow  pallid  and  flee. 

I  tasted  the  rapture  of  Flaccus, 
My  spirit  took  fire  at  his  flame; 

So  near  to  his  Lydia  and  Bacchus, 
I  felt  that  our  joys  were  the  same. 


COUNT  CARL  SNOILSKY  141 

Sorrento,  whate'er  may  befall  me, 

Thou  bindest  with  triple-wrought  band : 

Thy  maidens,  thy  vineyards  enthrall  me, 
And  still  more  thy  murmuring  strand. 

How  gladly  my  thoughts  would  forsake  there 
Myself  and  my  world  by  the  shore; 

I  dreamed,  as  the  billows  would  break  there. 
Sense-lulled  by  the  monotone  roar. 

What  joy  at  the  sultry  day's  ending 

To  stand  all  prepared  for  the  leap ! 
How  fine,  as  the  sun  was  descending. 

To  mimic  his  plunge  in  the  deep! 

The  star  o'er  the  fortress  was  lighted, 

When  wakened  the  Cyprian  sect. 
Each  balcony  softly  invited, 

Sorrento,  in  thy  dialect. 

How  quickly  Love  helps  one  to  capture 
A  speech,  when  the  learner  is  young! 

The  notes  of  the  nightingale's  rapture 
He  taught  to  a  harsh  northern  tongue. 

Sorrento,  beloved  of  my  spirit. 

That  showered  thy  roses  on  me, 
Alas!  though  I  hardly  can  bear  it, 

I  'm  parted  forever  from  thee. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

My  poor  heart  will  break,  being  sent  to 
The  snows  of  this  chill  northern  land. 

It  yearns  for  the  sun  and  Sorrento; 
Sorrento,  it  yearns  for  thy  strand. 

How  oft  in  this  waste  I  've  lamented, 
When,  grieving,  thy  loss  I  recall: 

Oh,  would  Fortune  never  had  granted 
That  I  should  have  seen  thee  at  all! 

But  then,  overcome  with  contrition, 
I  clasp  the  sweet  visions  that  throng. 

And  weave  with  a  fond  repetition, 
Sorrento,  thy  name  in  my  song. 

BLACK  SWANS 

JjLACK  swans,  like  a  sad  procession, 
O'er  the  wave  their  journey  take, 

Following  the  sun's  last  glimmer 
Out  across  the  darkening  lake. 

Sable,  as  though  flames  had  blackened, 
Is  their  feathery  garment's  hue; 

Silent  beaks  of  blood-bright  purple 
Show  their  fiery  nature  too. 

White  swans  tamely  by  the  margin 
Circle  where  the  crumbs  alight. 

Forth  unto  the  deep,  ye  black  ones ; 
P  orth,  ye  glowing  brood  of  night ! 


COUNT  CARL  SNOILSKY  143 

BIRDS  ON  A  TELEGRAPH  WIRE 

On  yonder  taut  aerial  wire,  "^1/0"^^''^ 

A  bridge  where  thought  is  speeding,  / 

A  merry  little  sparrow-choir  U 
Sits  careless  and  unheeding. 

They  chirp  through  life  as  in  a  dream. 

They  sport  there,  never  knowing 
Of  that  unbroken,  silent  stream 

That  through  the  wire  is  flowing. 

Though  thought  goes  by  in  endless  round, 

The  sparrows  no  more  hear  it 
Than  we  may  catch  the  whispered  sound 

From  the  dim  World  of  Spirit. 

Our  questions  find  no  sure  reply, 

Though  deep  and  wondrous  answers 
To  all  we  ask  are  flitting  by 

Like  waves  of  airy  dancers. 

Scarce  in  our  clay-dim  nature  rings 

An  echo  of  their  brooding, 
When  softly  murmur  the  twin  strings 

Called  Memory  and  Foreboding. 


144         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

BENVENUTO  CELLINI 

vvELLiNi,  play  the  man,"  King  Francis  said. 
"You  work  on  trifles  longer  than  is  right. 
Cast  me  a  Zeus  whose  like  ne'er  saw  the  light." 
The  king  had  bidden,  and  the  man  obeyed. 

Into  the  mould  the  master's  hand  had  made 
The  metal  ran.  But  view  Cellini's  plight! 
The  bronze  gives  out.  Shall  all  be  ruined  quite, 
The  artist  baffled  and  the  king  betrayed.'' 

What  did  Cellini?  Reckless  of  the  cost. 
He  threw  his  precious  toys  into  the  fire. 
There  stood  the  god,  a  masterpiece  entire. 

Thus  many  golden  dreams  of  youth  are  lost 

In  life  and  art.  But  mourn  not  such  bereavement, 
'T  is  only  so  we  win  to  full  achievement. 


NOLI  ME  TANGERE 

JN4y  heart's  delight  and  grief  are  not  a  bait 
For  market,  to  be  soiled  by  unknown  hands. 
Bright  toys  my  Fancy  gives  to  your  demands; 

My  inmost  temple  opens  not  its  gate. 


COUNT  CARL  SNOILSKY  145 

If  you  turn  not  your  back  upon  me  straight, 

Come  to  my  park.  How  dim  and  cool  it  stands! 
Go  amid  flowers  brought  from  southern  lands, 

And  view  my  portal,  sculptured  and  ornate. 

Over  the  threshold,  though,  I  shall  not  lead  you. 
The  stony  sentinel  will  never  heed  you, 
He  lets  but  light  and  perfume  visit  me. 

You'd  force  me?  Good!  A  single  word  I  utter, 
And  park  and  castle  in  an  eyelid's  flutter 
Are  gone,  and  whirling  sand  is  all  you  see. 


KING  ERIK 

OOFT  the  barges  glide  with  banners  flying. 

Malar  takes  the  sunset's  hue  of  pink. 
Oars  are  splashing,  merry  horns  replying. 

Woods  breathe  perfume  by  the  water's  brink. 
Drop  your  oars  and  with  the  current  sway, 
Idly  let  us  drift,  this  night  in  lovely  May! 
Horn,  be  silent  now. 
Echo,  listen  thou. 
While  plays  on  his  lute  King  Erik. 

Ay,  upon  his  lute  the  king  is  playing. 
Sweetly  on  his  broidered  knee  it  sings. 

His  white  hands  in  melody  are  straying 
O'er  its  cedar  frame  and  silver  strings. 


146         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Hushed  beside  him  little  Karin  lies 
Listening  till  the  tear-drops  gather  in  her  eyes. 
''Come,  my  shepherdess, 
Why  unhappiness?" 
Now  plays  on  his  lute  King  Erik. 

"Dost  thou  fear  some  ambush  of  my  brother, 
Tell  me,  sun  of  all  my  heart's  desire? 
Still  upon  the  throne  am  I,  none  other, 

Still  I  rule  the  kingdom  of  my  sire. 
Till  yon  peak  is  crowned  with  purple  light 
Let's  do  naught  but  love  in  springtime's  glowing  night! 
Many  an  hour  't  will  take 
Ere  the  morning  break." 
So  plays  on  his  lute  King  Erik. 

"  Little  Karin,  't  is  the  king  doth  woo  thee: 

Yield,  and  Stockholm  castle  thou  shalt  share. 
Say  one  word  —  a  crown  I  '11  give  unto  thee 

That  shall  pale  around  thy  golden  hair. 
I  am  Erik,  lord  of  lovely  dreams; 

Light  the  crown  is,  moulded  of  the  moon's  bright  beams. 
Weep  not,  little  one. 
And  my  land's  thine  own!" 
.    So  plays  on  his  lute  King  Erik. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS         147 

Edvard  Backs trom ,  1841-1886 

A  SONG  OF  STEN  STORE 

Young  Sten,  all  fear  defying, 

In  Doveness  Forest  he  fought. 
And  if  I  had  wings  for  flying, 

I  know  where  I  'd  fain  be  brought. 
"Ye  men  of  the  Dale,"  he  thundered, 
"Let  helmet  and  shield  be  sundered! 
For  never  a  dread  have  we. 
There  's  many  a  carl  untried  here 
That  fights  to-day  at  my  side  here, 
But  soon  a  knight  he  may  be." 

Bold  Sten,  all  fear  defying. 

He  battled  by  Brenkirk  town. 
And  if  I  had  wings  for  flying. 

It  's  there  they  should  put  me  down. 
"'Tis  either  stand  or  fall,  men. 
Now,  who  's  the  bravest  of  all,  men, 

To  bear  our  banner  on  high?" 
A  golden-haired  youth  stepped  out  then. 
And  answered  him  with  a  shout  then: 
"T  faith,  Sten,  and  that  will  I!" 


148  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

True  Sten,  all  fear  defying, 

He  fell  at  Osunda  Lake. 
And  if  I  had  wings  for  flying, 

It 's  there  that  my  death  I  'd  take. 
He  lay  on  his  couch,  sore  wounded, 
While  flurry  of  snow  surrounded. 

And  blithely  spoke  to  his  clan: 
"Why  fear,  though  I  am  departed? 
In  danger  be  still  light-hearted! 

God  always  can  find  His  man." 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS          149 

Carl  David  of  JVirsen,  1 842-1 9 1 2 

BOOKS  AND  LOVE 

When  at  your  desk  you  sit  with  studious  look 
Forgetting  all  the  world  for  one  small  book, 

And  she  who  is  your  all  comes  up  behind  you 
And  nestles,  eager  in  her  arms  to  bind  you, 

Don't  gruffly  bid  her  leave  you,  don't  demur. 
But  leave  your  book  and  go  along  with  her! 

Your  dusty  tomes  will  bide  with  vou  for  aye. 
You  do  not  know  how  long  your  love  will  stay. 

There  's  many  a  lonely  man  with  care-worn  brow 
Would  gladly  be  disturbed  as  you  are  now. 

Let  love  illuminate  in  shining  gold 

Your  book  with  pictures  lovely  to  behold ! 

So,  should  your  home  be  desolated  quite. 
The  ancient  book  will  stream  with  holy  light, 

And  where  you  now  are  vexed,  at  your  right  hand 
A  beckoning  angelic  form  will  stand. 


I50         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

MOONBEAMS 

When  starry  legions  gleam  on 
The  dusk  of  the  heavens  above, 

And  drops  of  silver  stream  on 

Each  murmuring  brook  and  grove, 

Why  is  it  the  fir-trees  shiver, 

What  sets  our  hearts  all  a-quiver? 

What  secret  disturbs  us  ever 

When  whispers  of  twilight  rove? 

When  through  the  leafy  branches 

That  trellis  the  forest  glade 
A  pale  beam  falls  and  blanches 

The  spray  of  the  bright  cascade, 
What  wakens  each  eerie  feeling 
Our  bosoms  have  been  concealing. 
Forgotten  beauty  revealing 

Till  tears  can  no  more  be  stayed  ? 

Know,  when  on  paths  deserted 

And  lonely  thy  footsteps  roam. 
The  souls  of  the  departed, 

Of  all  that  loved  thee,  come. 
From  danger  they  seek  to  save  thee, 
And  of  the  soft  beams  that  lave  thee 
A  shimmering  net  they  weave  thee 
And  draw  thee  unto  their  home. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  151 

August  Strhidberg,  1 849-1 9 1 2 

SABBATH   EVE 

IVliRROR-STiLL  the  bay,  no  breeze  molesting, 
Sailors  drop  the  sails,  the  mill  is  resting. 
Oxen  to  the  verdant  fields  may  fare  now. 
All  things  for  the  day  of  peace  prepare  now. 

Through  the  forest  runs  a  woodcock-reading, 
From  yon  porch  accordion  notes  are  flooding, 
Paths  are  swept  and  raked, — no  task  is  trifled, — 
Fruit-trees  watered,  lilac  bushes  rifled. 

Children's  dolls  are  lying  in  disorder 
Under  tulip  blossoms  by  the  border. 
In  the  grass  a  ball,  well  hid  from  spying. 
In  the  water-butt  a  trumpet 's  lying. 

Shutters  have  been  closed,  and  people  hasten 
Now  to  draw  the  bolts,  the  locks  to  fasten. 
Last  the  mistress  leaves  no  candle  gleaming; 
Soon  the  household  will  be  lost  in  dreaming. 

While  the  warm  June  night  so  softly  drowses. 
And  no  breeze  the  weather-vane  arouses. 
On  the  shore  the  waves  are  lightly  sounding. 
Where  the  swell  of  last  week's  storm  is  pounding. 


152         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

THE  ESPLANADE  METHOD 

Where  ancient  hovels  stood  so  close 
They  shut  off  all  the  sunny  weather, 

One  day  men  saw  with  poles  and  crows 
A  gay  young  troop  come  there  together. 

Then  dust  and  chafF 
Rose  up  like  smoke, 

As  plank  and  lath 
Apart  they  broke. 

The  rotten  wood, 

As  dry  as  snufF, 
Whirled  'round,  with  lime 

And  other  stuff. 

And  axes  laid 

The  timbers  low. 
And  walls  were  felled 

With  stalwart  blow. 

The  pick-axe  ripped. 
The  hooks  took  hold. 

And  down  the  roofs 
And  chimneys  rolled. 


AUGUST  STRINDBERG  153 

From  hut  to  hut 

The  wreckers  went 
Till  one  and  all 

To  earth  were  sent. 

Just  then  by  chance  an  old  man  came 
And  with  amazement  saw  the  tearing. 

He  stood;  to  him  it  seemed  a  shame 
As  mid  the  ruins  he'd  been  faring. 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  build,  good  men  ? 

Will  there  be  streets  of  villas  made  here?" 
"  We  shall  not  build  it  up  again. 

We  're  clearing  for  an  esplanade  here." 

"Such  are  the  times:  to  break  and  tear! 

But  to  build  up  —  oh,  that  were  frightful  !  " 
"  We  break  to  give  you  light  and  air; 

Is  not,  perhaps,  our  method  rightful?" 


154         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Enist  Josephson ,  1851-1 906 

THE  CELLO 

1  HEAR  within  my  heart  of  hearts 
A  trembling  tone  of  grief  that  sings 
Like  melancholy  cello  strings. 

Then  softly,  meltingly  departs. 

The  cello  feels  a  sharper  pain 

Whene'er  the  string  is  drawn  more  taut. 
And  is  with  sadder  music  fraught 

Each  time  the  peg  is  turned  again. 

The  Player's  grasp  hurts  too,  when  He 
Is  fain  more  lovely  tunes  to  make. — 
Ah  God !  and  if  the  string  shall  break, 

My  soul  will  leap  forth  and  be  free! 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH   LYRICS  155 

Albert  Ulrik  Bddth,  1853-1912 

"IF  I  WERE  A   POET" 

If  I  were  a  poet,  and  gray  and  tired, 
And  found  I  had  come  to  be  much  admired 
By  cultured  cliques  for  my  style  so  rare, 
With  my  picture  in  book-shops  everywhere; 
'T  would  give  me  small  joy  as  I  sat  apart, 
Worn-out  and  faint  at  heart. 

But  I  know  what  would  bring  the  blood  to  my  cheek 
And  stir  my  marrow,  though  never  so  weak, — 
If  I  saw  from  my  window  some  day  in  spring 
The  workingmen  pass,  and  they  should  sing 
In  time  to  their  step  as  they  strode  along. 
And  mine  should  be  the  song. 


156         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Daniel  Fa llstrbm,  1858- 

TO  A  SEA-GULL  IN  THE  STEAMER'S  WAKE 

ONOW-WHITE  gull,  oh,  would  to  you  't  were  given 
All  the  gladness  of  your  life  to  know. 

While  you  hovered  in  the  blue  of  heaven 
Gazing  on  the  wide-spread  waves  below ! 

Perched  upon  some  cliff  above  the  surges. 

You  may  rest  and  watch  the  dawn  grow  gray, 

See  the  sun's  red  disc  as  it  emerges, 

While  the  light-house  beacon  fades  away. 

Born  sole  heir  of  ocean's  vast  dominions, 
Your  first  cradle-song  the  roaring  wave, 

Never  sullying  your  shining  pinions, 

In  the  morning  light  your  breast  you  lave; 

Lave  it  in  the  brine  too,  when  the  ocean 

Glitters  mirror- like  in  calm  repose. 
Or  its  ponderous  waves  in  mad  commotion 

Grimly  charge  the  reefs,  their  ancient  foes. 

Only  In  the  spring  when  northward  flying 
Do  you  pause  to  view  the  Stockholm  folk; 

Fishing  here,  you  watch  the  steamers  lying 
In  a  row  and  belching  clouds  of  smoke. 


DANIEL  FALLSTROM  157 

I  am  happy  every  time  I  see  you, 

As  above  Ship  Island's  bridge  you  soar. 

Summer  thoughts  come  o'er  me,  for  to  me  you 
Bring  gay  pictures  of  a  rocky  shore. 

Therefore,  sea-gull,  may  you  gladly  follow 
In  our  steamer's  wake,  where'er  it  goes. 

Gladly  snatching  from  the  foaming  billow 
What  a  little  willing  hand  bestows. 


OH,  NEVER  ASK! 

v-)h,  never  ask,  my  son,  what  love  may  be — 
Oh,  never  ask,  for  I  cannot  declare  it. 

Should  life  reveal  to  you  the  mystery. 

You,  just  as  I,  could  let  no  other  share  it. 

You  see  a  pair  of  eyes, — you  know  not  how, — 
A  lock  that  flutters;  lips  too,  smiling  lightly. 

And  presto !  where  's  your  heart  flown  off  to  now  ? 
The  sun,  however,  seems  to  shine  more  brightly. 

You  hear  an  unknown  voice,  and  in  dismay. 

You  lose  from  that  first  moment  all  your  reason. 

Touched  by  the  magic  wand  of  some  small  fay. 
Some  girl  who  has  not  seen  her  eighteenth  season. 

Within  the  wood's  deep  twilight,  where  the  thrush 
Is  warbling,  and  the  moon  gleams  on  the  water. 


158         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Your  soul  takes  wings  beside  her  in  the  hush, 

As  through  that  night  of  June  you've  gently  brought  her. 

You  'd  gather  the  green  world  in  your  embrace, 
A  world  of  love-songs  and  of  spring-sweet  blisses; 

And  then  before  you  dared  to  ask  the  grace. 
Your  lips  have  won  of  hers  a  thousand  kisses. 

Leaning  together,  while  your  spirits  yearn. 

You  drink  the  cup  Oblivion's  hand  is  reaching  — 

Why  need  you  care,  though  all  the  world  should  burn. 
If  toward  you  two  no  hungry  flames  are  stretching? 

Why  should  you  care,  though  all  things  go  to  rack, 
Though  Night  and  Chaos  rule  the  world  at  pleasure. 

If  for  one  moment  two  deep  orbs  of  black 
Foretell  a  happiness  beyond  all  measure. 

Oh,  never  ask,  my  son,  what  love  may  be  — 

Oh,  never  ask,  for  I  cannot  declare  it. 
Should  life  reveal  to  you  the  mystery, 

You,  just  as  I,  could  let  no  other  share  it. 


STOCKHOLM  IN  WHITE 

Alike  in  green  or  snowy  pride 
My  ardent  gaze  vou  capture; 

Now  clad  in  white,  a  winter  bride. 
You  fill  my  soul  with  rapture. 


DANIEL  FALLSTROM  159 

You  stand  there  hushed  as  in  a  dream, 

While  starry  twinklings  cover 
The  waters  of  the  dark  North  Stream, 

Though  Malar  's  frozen  over. 

You  're  like  some  tale  of  olden  days, 

When  western  skies  are  glowing 
And  high  above  the  frozen  bays 

The  purple  deeps  are  showing. 

The  sunset  gilds  the  towers  there, 

The  roofs  give  back  a  shimmer 
Like  silver,  while  with  flame-red  glare 

The  castle  windows  glimmer. 

With  winter's  ermine  o'er  you  laid. 

While  church-bells  toll  serenelv. 
You  shine  in  robe  and  crown  arrayed, 

A  vision  high  and  queenly. 

You  put  all  baser  thoughts  to  flight, 

All  passions  of  the  mart  now, 
Till  in  the  silence  of  the  night 

I  hear  your  beating  heart  now. 

Your  old  proud  look  returns  again. 

All  ugliness  is  banished. 
The  meanness  and  the  lies  of  men 

Before  that  glance  have  vanished. 


i6o         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Verner  vo?i  Heidenstam,  1859- 

HOME-LAND 

What  old  man  has  not  in  his  mournful  keeping 
The  smallest  thing  that  made  his  life  of  worth? 
He  sees  a  door,  a  woman  bent  and  weeping, 
As  toward  a  grave  the  young  man  journeyed  forth. 

He  recollects  each  room,  though  poor  and  base. 
Each  window-sill,  of  myrtle  faintly  smelling. 
How  should  the  heart  less  fervently  embrace 
The  land  that  is  our  home,  our  earthly  dwelling? 

They  stand  there  yet  by  lake  or  lone  morass, 
Red  cottages  and  manor-halls  majestic. 
Behind  yon  frosted  panes  our  sires  would  pass. 
And  Yule-tide  candles  glowed  with  joy  domestic. 

This  was  their  vision,  this  it  was  that  drove 
Their  hands  to  build  for  us,  the  coming  races. 
All  that  which  bound  them  unto  life  with  love 
Lives  yet  in  memories  round  their  vacant  places. 

By  the  same  hearth,  when  evening  shadows  come. 
We  speak  of  them,  some  childish  hand  caressing. 
O  thou,  our  native  land,  our  larger  home, 
Weave  of  our  lives  thy  glory  and  thy  blessing! 


VERNER  VON   HEIDENSTAM  i6i 

FELLOW-CITIZENS 

As  sure  as  we  have  a  fatherland 
We  are  heirs  to  it  one  with  another, 
By  common  right  in  an  equal  band 
The  rich  and  his  needy  brother. 
Let  each  have  his  voice  as  we  did  of  old 
When  a  shield  was  the  freeman's  measure, 
And  not  all  be  weighed  like  sacks  of  gold 
By  a  merchant  counting  his  treasure. 

We  fought  for  our  homes  together  when 

Our  coast  by  the  foeman  was  blighted. 

It  was  not  alone  the  gentlemen 

Drew  sword  when  the  beacons  were  lighted. 

Not  only  the  gentlemen  sank  to  earth 

But  also  the  faithful  yeomen ; 

'T  is  a  blot  on  our  flag  that  we  reckon  worth 

By  wealth,  and  poor  men  are  no  men. 

'T  is  a  shame  to  do  as  we  oft  have  done, — 

Give  strangers  the  highest  places. 

But  beat  our  own  doors  with  many  a  stone 

And  publish  our  own  disgraces. 

We  are  weary  of  bleeding  by  our  own  knife, 

When  the  heart  from  the  head  we  se\er; 

We  would  be  as  one  folk  with  a  single  life, 

Which  we  are  and  shall  be  forever. 


1 62         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

PRAYER  AMID  FLAMES 

rdoLY  Spirit,  I  worship  thee. 

Fire  and  Victory  is  thy  name. 

Shine  in  our  need,  O  spirit  of  power. 

Shine  o'er  the  gulf  of  our  dread  last  hour, 

Burn  unto  ashes  our  mortal  frame!  — 

Even  in  death  mine  arms  shall  be 

Outstretched  in  prayer  to  thy  deathless  flame. 


MY  LIFE 

VJLIDE  on,  my  life!  I  love  thee  not  so  much 
That  I  would  set  thine  hours  with  busy  care 
In  a  shop-window  for  a  common  show. 
I  never  say:  "Come,  press  the  master  hand 
That  lures  to  birth  such  wondrous  lovely  flowers! 

When  I  have  been  betrayed  by  trusted  friends 
And  heavy  fortune  follows  on  my  path, 
I  do  not  bear  with  me  a  silver  cup 
Of  tears  and  say  to  him  who  passes  by: 
■Oh,  lay  thine  arm  about  my  neck  and  weep, 
And  pity  me,  and  let  us  both  lament!" 

Oh,  thou  wide  world,  my  greatest  grief 
Is  but  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 
I  go  in  silence  to  my  grave. 


VERNER  VON  HEIDENSTAM 


163 


STARTING  ON  THE  JOURNEY 

Already  I  'm  upon  the  bridge  that  leads 

From  Earth  unto  a  land  beyond  my  ken, 

And  far  to  me  is  now  what  once  was  near. 

Beneath,  as  formerly,  the  race  of  men 

Praise,  blame,  and  forge  their  darts  for  warlike  deeds; 

From  here  I  see  that  true  and  noble  creeds 

Even  on  foemen's  shields  are  blazoned  clear. 

No  more  does  life  bewilder  with  its  riot. 

I  am  as  lonely  as  a  man  may  be; 

Still  is  the  air,  austere,  and  winter-quiet; 

Self  is  forgot,  and  I  go  forward  free. 

I  loose  my  shoes  and  cast  aside  my  stave. 

Softly  I  go,  for  I  would  not  defile 

With  dust  a  world  so  pure,  all  white  as  snow. 

Beneath,  men  soon  may  carry  to  a  gra\'e 

A  wretched  shape  of  human  clay,  the  while 

Mumbling  a  name — 't  was  mine  once  long  ago. 


Xw4^ 


A  MAN'S  LAST  WORD  TO  A  WOMAN 

JLovE-DAZED,  on  rosy  paths  I  sought  thee  far; 
That  was  the  spring,  my  gay  and  stormy  prime. 
Then  I  encountered  thee  with  smiles  and  war; 
Those  were  the  manhood  years  of  summer-time. 
I  thank  thee  for  the  joy  thy  presence  gave; 
'T  is  autumn,  when  our  bed  must  be  —  the  grave. 


1 64         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH   LYRICS 

SWEDEN 

O  Sweden,  Sweden,  Sweden,  native  land, 

The  home  and  haven  of  our  longing! 
The  cow-bells  ring  where  heroes  used  to  stand, 
Whose  deeds  are  story,  but  with  hand  in  hand 

To  swear  the  ancient  troth  thy  loyal  sons  are  thronging. 

Fall,  winter  snow!  And  sigh,  thou  wood's  deep  breast! 

Burn,  all  ye  stars,  in  summer  heavens  peeping! 
Sweden,  mother,  be  our  strife,  our  rest. 
Thou  land  wherein  our  sons  shall  build  their  nest. 

Beneath  whose  church-yard  stones  our  noble  sires  are 
sleeping. 


THE  DOVE  OF  THOUGHT 

JLoNE  the  dove  of  thought  goes  lagging 
Through  the  storm,  with  pinions  dragging 
O'er  an  autumn  lake  the  while. 
Earth  's  aflame,  the  heart 's  a-fever. 
Seek,  my  dove, — alas!  thou  never 
Comest  to  Oblivion's  isle. 

Hapless  dove,  shall  one  brief  minute. 
Flaming,  fright  thee  to  a  swoon? 
Sleep  thou  on  my  hand.  Full  soon. 
Hushed  and  hurt,  thou  'It  lie  within  it. 


VERNER  VON  HEIDENSTAM  165 

"GRANT  THAT  WE  DIE  YOUNG" 

VJIVE  but  the  happiness  our  tongue 
Would  quaff,  but  only  sips  in  stinted  measure; 
Pour  us  a  brimming  draught  of  pain,  of  pleasure, 
And  grant  that  we  die  young! 

Man  doth  not  ever  find  amid  the  grasses 

A  plant  that  wind  and  frost  more  quickly  slay, 

Nor  doth  he  form  a  vessel  out  of  clay 

More  brittle  than  himself — so  soon  he  passes. 

What  though  he  build  the  structure  stone  by  stone 

Of  all  his  knowledge,  thought,  and  will,  and  yearning? 

Ere  on  his  grave  the  grass  to  green  is  turning 

His  crumbling  temple  unto  dust  is  blown, 

And  like  a  withered  branch  the  spire  is  overthrown. 

'T  is  day  as  yet,  and  joyful  songs  are  sung 
By  temple  maidens  dancing  on  the  mead. 
When  it  is  dark,  then  let  us  homeward  speed; — 
Oh,  grant  that  we  die  young! 

MOONLIGHT 

1  IS  strange  that  I  sit  here  in  wakeful  mood, 
Though  day  has  brought  me  nor  joy  nor  gain; 
But  all  of  which  ever  my  life  was  fain. 
And  all  that  was  hidden  in  gloom  and  pain. 
Is  trembling  to-night  in  yon  silvery  flood. 


1 66         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

INVOCATION  AND  PROMISE 

If  the  neighbor-lands  three  should  cry:  "Forget 
Our  greatness  of  bygone  ages!" 
I'd  answer:  "Arise,  O  North,  who  yet 
May'st  be  what  my  dream  presages!" 
The  vision  of  greatness  may  bring  again 
New  deeds  like  those  of  our  betters. 
Come,  open  the  graves  —  nay,  give  us  men 
For  Science  and  Art  and  Letters! 

r   Ay,  close  to  a  clifF,  let  our  people  stand, 
\   Where  a  fool  his  poor  neck  may  shatter. 
I   There  are  other  things,  men,  to  hold  in  your  hand 
/    Than  a  brim-full  Egyptian  platter. 

It  were  better  the  plate  should  be  split  in  two 
Than  that  hearts  should  rot  when  still  living. 
That  no  race  may  be  more  great  than  you, — 
That's  the  goal,  why  count  we  the  striving? 

It  were  better  to  feel  the  avenger's  might 

Than  that  years  unto  naught  should  have  hasted. 

It  were  better  our  people  should  perish  quite 

And  our  fields  and  cities  be  wasted. 

It  is  braver  the  chance  of  the  dice  to  take 

Than  to  mope  till  our  fire  is  expended; 

It  is  finer  to  hear  the  bow-string  break 

Than  never  the  bow  to  have  bended. 


167 


VERNER  VON   HEIDENSTAM 

I  wake  in  the  night,  but  I  hear  no  sound 

Save  the  waters  seething  and  churning. 

Like  a  soldier  of  Judah,  prone  on  the  ground, 

I  could  pray  with  passionate  yearning, 

I  ask  not  a  year  of  sunshine  bright, 

Nor  for  golden  crops  I  importune. 

Kind  Fate,  let  the  blazing  thunderbolt  smite 

My  people  with  years  of  misfortune ! 

Yea,  smite  us  and  lash  us  into  one. 

And  the  bluest  of  springs  will  follow. 

Ye  smile,  my  folk,  but  with  face  as  of  stone. 

Ye  sing,  but  your  joy  is  hollow. 

Ye  rather  would  dance  in  silk  attire 

Than  solve  your  own  riddle  clearly. 

To  youthful  deeds  ye  might  yet  aspire 

If  again  ye  could  weep  sincerely. 


Then  on,  fair  daughter,  in  hardship  bred. 

Let  shyness  and  sloth  forsake  thee ! 

We  love  thee  so  that,  if  thou  wert  dead, 

Our  love  to  life  could  awake  thee. 

Though  the  bed  be  hard,  though  the  midnight  lowers. 

We  '11  be  true  while  the  tempest  rages. 

Thou  people,  thou  land,  thou  speech  that  is  ours. 

Thou  voice  of  our  souls  to  the  ages  ! 


1 68  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

FROM  "THOUGHTS  IN  LONELINESS" 

1  HERE  is  a  spark  dwells  deep  within  my  soul. 
To  get  it  out  into  the  daylight's  glow 
Is  my  life's  aim  both  first  and  last,  the  whole. 

It  slips  away,  it  burns  and  tortures  me. 
That  little  spark  is  all  the  wealth  I  know; 
That  little  spark  is  my  life's  misery. 


A  DAY 

With  twinkling  stars  the  sky  is  crowned. 
Although  the  peasant  with  his  light 
vV  Is  rambling  on  his  farm-yard  round, 

Av^  Now  to  the  woods  with  deep,  soft  sound 

Goes  fluttering  the  Bird  of  Night, 
\V^  The  cottage  clock  is  striking  five. 

The  streak  of  morn  is  gleaming. 
The  factory  wheels  are  all  alive. 
The  fire  and  sparks  are  streaming. 

To  north,  where  pine  and  fir-trees  float, 

The  earliest  rays  have  hurried 

To  tinge  the  heath,  A  cow-horn's  note 

O'er  the  smooth  lake  is  carried. 

The  beams  now  touch  a  pale  white  peak. 

Or  on  some  torrent  settle 


VERNER  VON  HEIDENSTAM  169 

That,  frozen,  hangs  on  ledges  bleak. 
Above  a  Lapp's  tent  whirls  the  reek, 
And  flames  leap  round  his  kettle. 
Out  on  the  snow,  with  branching  horns 
His  deer  stand  in  a  ring  there. 
No  house,  no  tower  yon  land  adorns, 
Nor  is  there  bell  to  sing  there. 
Night  seethes  around,  an  ocean  vast, 
For  all  things  come  to  night  at  last. 

Thou  sun,  whose  might  bestoweth 

On  each  least  plant  a  quickening  dower. 

Grant  us  thy  bright  creative  power 

As  long  as  day  still  gloweth! 

Eager  the  heart,  but  time  is  short. 

Oh,  hark  to  our  imploring, — 

Thou  whom  our  fathers  once  did  court, — 

On  us  thy  radiance  pouring. 

Go  forth,  go  forth,  thou  new-born  day. 

With  morning-song  and  hammer-play, 

And  let  not  fear  come  o'er  us!  riAAJi^ 

Kindle  brave  strife,  our  hearth-stone  guard; 

Send,  lightning-like,  a  spirit-sword 

To  flash  the  road  before  us! 

Shine  far  across  o'er  folk  and  land,  / 

Make  rich  our  soul,  make  firm  our  hand, 

So  that  with  gladness  we  may  bear 

Such  years  as  age  shall  bring, 

And  still  like  sowers  onward  fare 

Into  the  world's  v\e^v/  Spring ! 


l^^w/^^ 


lyo  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH   LYRICS 

FROM  "THE  FOREST  OF  TIVEDEN" 

PART    I 

JTlARK  how  the  fir-trees  in  dismal  tones, 
Like  the  minor  discords  of  drum  and  horn, 
Sing  a  weird  lament,  all  squeaks  and  groans, 
That  trolls  have  composed  in  this  land  forlorn  ! 

And  here,  while  gnat-swarms  pipe  and  dance. 

Past  ages  arise  as  in  a  trance. 

These  ferns  have  survived  an  earlier  aeon; 

Those  moss-grown  rocks  with  impending  mass 

Are  piled  in  a  rampart  cyclopean; 

Each  rotten  log  in  the  wild  morass 

Is  a  deep-sea  monster,  that  here  sticks  out 

At  the  edge  of  the  water  his  dripping  snout. 

With  reptilian  scales  yon  pine-tree's  root 
Stands  deep  in  the  ooze,  like  a  saurian's  foot; 
And  others,  like  spiders,  are  poised  unsteady 
On  the  edge  of  the  cliffs  where  the  step  grows  giddy. 

But  silence!  A  shaggy  head  is  shaking 

The  net-work  of  twigs,  the  dry  stumps  breaking 

And  laying  them  low  on  the  heather  dense. 

'T  is  the  elk.  As  mighty  and  immense 

As  a  mastodon,  he  now  is  slaking 

His  thirst  in  the  swamp.  He  looks  about. 

Wild-eyed,  at  the  mountains  that  shut  him  in. 


VERNER  VON  HEIDENSTAM  171 

While  silvery  threads  are  trickling  out 
Of  his  panting  muzzle  and  bearded  chin. 

The  haughty  pine,  as  if  in  fear 

Of  the  light,  creeps  close  to  the  gravel  here. 

See  the  mountains!  they  rise  not  in  splendid  shapes 

Of  eternal  snow,  but  are  squat  and  gray, 

They  stand  like  beggars  in  thread-bare  capes 

That  are  dingy  now  since  many  a  day. 

And  had  we  the  murkiest  words  at  hand 

They  were  not  dark  or  gloomy  enow 

To  paint  in  verse  that  primeval  land, 

Which  is  ever  preaching:  "Renounce,  forsake!" 

The  peasant  bites  at  his  black  rye  cake, 

And  loose  stones  rattle  beneath  his  plough. 

How  gray,  how  clad  in  joylessness 

Are  all  of  the  scenes  that  meet  me! 

My  native  soil,  in  the  ragged  dress 

Of  poverty  you  greet  me. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  GUSTAF  FRODING 

roRTH  they  go 

In  endless  procession 

One  by  one  with  their  silent  tread. 

Bells  are  tolling.  Deep,  slow 

With  rumbling  vibration 

Singing  their  song  to  the  march  of  the  dead. 


172         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

I  hear,  as  I  sit  half-dreaming, 
The  bell-notes  that  heat  from  miles  away. 
All  of  our  land,  beneath  winter  gleaming, 
Hears  the  bells  as  they  ring  to-day. 
Summer  were  you  and  blossoming  spring, 
Sigh  of  the  reeds  by  lake-lapped  strands. 
Sleep,  O  singer,  whose  bier  they  bring 
Borne  by  a  thousand  hands. 

White  was  your  hair,  and  long  your  beard; 
The  sun  shone  in  on  your  Bible's  page. 
And  you  in  your  bare-walled  room  appeared 
Like  Job  mid  his  ashes,  bent  with  age. 
How  wondrous  great  is  man's  destiny: 
Dreams  and  old  tales  and  the  flowing  sea. 
Floods  and  flames  and  the  choir  of  the  storm!  — 
But  weak  as  a  reed  is  his  own  frail  form. 

Die,  die! — so  echoes  the  cry 

To  him  that  creates  with  yearning  passion. 

All  must  perish. 

All  that  is  earthly  must  die,  must  die; 

But  no,  't  is  himself  that  his  strong  hands  fashion. 

Pass,  O  bard,  erect  as  a  king, 

To  the  host  of  the  shades  through  the  darksome  portal! 

Still  we  cherish 

Your  limpid-silvery  notes  immortal. 

Singing  to  us  as  they  used  to  sing. 


VERNER  VON  HEIDENSTAM  173 

AT  THE  END  OF  THE  WAY 

Wise,  O  Man,  thou  only  shalt  become 

When  thou  winn'st  unto  the  evening  coolness 

Of  the  topmost  height,  the  Earth  o'erlooking. 

Turn  thee  at  the  ending  of  the  way, 

Rest  an  hour,  O  king,  and  look  behind  thee! 

All  is  clear  there,  all  is  reconciled. 

And  the  realm  of  youth  once  more  is  gleaming, 

Strewn  as  erst  with  light  and  morning  dew. 

NAMELESS  AND  IMMORTAL  "/^    / 

riNisHED,  in  Paestum's  rose-embowering  garden. 
Stood  Neptune's  temple,  and  the  man  who  planned 
Sat  near.  His  young  wife,  on  his  shoulder  leaning. 
Spun  with  the  yellow  distaff  in  her  hand. 
She  listened  to  the  piping  of  the  herdsmen 
Who  tended  on  the  hills  their  droves  of  swine, 
And  with  an  almost  childish  joy  she  murmured, 
Twisting  the  flax  about  her  fingers  fine: 
"  My  cup  of  happiness  is  filled  to  brimming. 
The  man  who  brings  me  home  to  Naxos'  strand. 
Now  he  has  built  yon  glorious  Neptune  temple, 
Returns,  immortal,  to  his  native  land." 

Then  solemnly  her  husband  answered  her: 
"  No,  when  we  die,  our  name  will  pass  away 
A  few  years  after,  but  yon  temple  there 


174         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Will  still  he  standing  as  it  stands  to-day. 
j   Think  you  an  artist  in  his  time  of  power 
1   Sees  in  the  background  multitudes  that  shout? 
I    Nay,  inward,  only  inward,  turns  his  eye, 
/   And  he  knows  nothing  of  the  world  without. 

'T  is  therefore  that  the  bard  would  weep  hot  blood 

If  he  deliver  not  his  pregnant  soul ; 

But  he  would  kiss  each  line  wherein  he  sees 

His  spirit  live  again,  true-born  and  whole. 

'T  is  in  such  lines  as  these  he  lives  and  moves. 

He  strives  for  immortality  —  but  mark! 

'T  is  for  his  writings,  never  for  himself; 

The  man's  true  reputation  is  his  work. 

What's  Homer?  At  the  very  best  a  myth! 

We  seek  to  clasp  a  more  enduring  fame. 

The  pulse  leaps  when  we  see  his  temple's  pride. 

For  'Iliad'  is  that  temple's  mighty  name." 

He  rose,  as  if  to  go,  but  suddenly 
She  caught  him  by  the  cloak  and  held  him  fast 
And  murmured,  while  a  hundred  smiles  dissolved 
In  the  one  look  that  furtively  she  cast : 
"  Still  on  a  column  there  your  name  is  carved. 
If  this  proud  vaunt  be  earnest,  as  you  say, 
Take  from  among  the  tools  there  at  your  feet 
The  biggest  sledge  and  hew  the  name  away!" 

He  turned,  he  shot  at  her  a  keen,  quick  glance, 
But  when  she  sat  there  calmly  as  before, 


VERNER  VON  HEIDENSTAM  175 

Twisting  the  flax  into  an  even  thread 

And  gazing  at  the  masts  along  the  shore, 

He  bent  him  down  impulsively  and  took 

The  biggest  sledge;  his  knuckles  were  distended 

And  then  grew  white  as  wax,  so  hard  he  gripped 

Upon  the  haft.  The  lifted  sledge  descended. 

It  scattered  sparks  from  out  the  column's  side, 

And  at  his  feet  the  steps  were  sprinkled  o'er 

With  rain  of  pointed  shards.  From  that  time  forth 

The  temple  bore  the  artist's  name  no  more. 

Then  with  a  shout  of  joy  his  young  wife  sprang 
Quickly  from  flax  and  distaff  to  the  place, 
And  mid  the  scattered  fragments  of  his  fame 
She  fell  and  clasped  his  knees  in  her  embrace. 
"Ah,  now,"  she  cried,  "  no  words  can  tell  my  joy, 
As  we  return  to  Naxos  whence  we  came. 
Now  is  my  lord  a  thousand  times  more  great 
And  '  Paestum's  Temple'  is  his  mighty  name!" 

The  evening  came.  A  single  ship  went  out 
With  lowered  sail,  a  Naxos  flag  had  she. 
Slowly  she  rowed  far  out  against  the  sun 
And  vanished  on  the  mirror  of  the  sea. 

A  thousand  years  and  more  have  passed  away. 
Levelling  Paestum  with  the  verdant  plain, 
But  still  the  temple  stands,  and  in  its  shade 
The  fiddlers  wake  Arcadian  joys  again. 


176         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

The  master's  name  may  no  man  surely  know, 

But  all  who  see  the  temple's  gleaming  height 

May  see  his  very  soul  in  yonder  form 

And  share  to-day  the  architect's  delight. 

He  is  to  me  an  old  beloved  friend 

In  whom  I  recognize  in  very  truth 

A  schoolmate,  brother,  comrade  of  my  youth. 


ALONE  BY  THE  LAKE 

iriERE  spread  the  waters  dark  and  deep, 
Where  now  your  ashes  are  lying. 
Oh,  tell  me,  my  father,  will  you  keep 
The  promise  you  made  when  dying? 
Then  rise,  O  wraith,  from  your  watery  grave. 
Speak  the  word  that  was  uttered  never. 
Oh,  give  the  token  that  none  yet  gave, 
If  the  dead  may  live  on  forever! 

From  the  dark  the  surf  rolls  in  its  foam. 

With  a  curve  of  white  it  enrings  me; 

A  storm-cloud  points  to  the  starry  dome. 

As  though  some  token  it  flings  me; 

But  Fate,  like  the  night,  is  hushed  in  gloom. 

And  naught  in  answer  it  brings  me. 

No  answer  for  him  who  does  not  see 
What  you,  ye  stars,  are  outpouring. 


VERNER  VON  HEIDENSTAM  177 

I  am  one  with  you  from  eternity, 
With  the  winds  and  the  surf's  loud  roaring. 
Then  shine  for  me,  stars,  and  guide  me  on, 
For  you  are  my  father  since  he  is  gone! 


HOME 

1  'm  longing  for  the  forest: 

The  pathway  in  the  grasses. 

The  house  that  on  the  ness  is. 

What  orchards  hold  such  apples 

Deep-hid  from  eager  spying? 

What  grain,  when  zephyr  dapples, 

Can  breathe  so  soft  a  sighing? 

Where  could  I  hope  as  well  to  slumber 

When  bells  the  hours  of  evening  number? 

Where  do  my  memories  tarry? 
Where  are  my  dead  still  living? 
Where  I,  while  gray  and  gaunt  still, 
With  harsh,  relentless  finger 
The  years  my  fate  are  weaving? 
I  am  a  shade,  and  haunt  still 
The  place  where  memories  linger. 
Oh,  seek  not  near  to  hover, 
Although  the  doors  are  fastened 
And  matted  leaves  now  cover 
The  steps  where  winds  ha\'e  hastened 
And  dropped  their  withered  quarry. 


178  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Let  others'  laughter  carry, 
And  new  floods,  wilder,  stronger, 
Bear  me,  the  moat  o'erswelling. 
To  those  that  speak  no  longer. 
I  sit  within  there  lonely. 
Myself  a  memory  only, — 
That  is  my  kingly  dwelling. 

Oh,  say  not  that  our  elders. 

Whose  eyes  are  closed  forever. 

That  those  we  fain  would  banish 

And  from  our  lives  would  sever, — 

Say  not  their  colors  vanish 

Like  flowers  and  like  grasses, 

That  we  from  hearts  efface  them 

Like  dust,  when  one  would  clear  it 

From  ancient  window-glasses. 

In  power  they  upraise  them, 

A  host  they  of  the  spirit. 

The  whole  white  earth  enshrouding. 

Our  thoughts  too  overclouding, 

Whate'er  our  fate  or  fortune. 

Thoughts  that,  like  swallows  crowding, 

Fly  home  at  evening  duly. 

A  home!  how  firm  its  base  is 

By  walls  securely  shielded, — 

Our  world  —  the  one  thing  truly 

We  in  this  world  have  builded. 


VERNER  VON  HEIDENSTAM  179 

"HOW  EASILY  MEN'S  CHEEKS  ARE  HOT 
WITH   WRATH!" 

rdow  easily  men's  cheeks  are  hot  with  wrath! 

In  haste,  though  sadly  ignorant  of  the  art, 

The  many  judge  the  individual  heart. 

But  every  heart  a  secret  chamber  hath, 

Thereto  a  door  whose  lock  no  key  will  turn. 

What  oil  the  lamp  within  that  room  doth  burn 

No  man  may  know.  But  through  the  keyhole  stream 

Pale,  slender  rays  of  light,  and  by  their  gleam 

We  move  about  and  wake,  and  fall  asleep. 

It  leads  US}  to  our  journey's  end  we  keep 

Along  the  pathway  pointed  by  its  beam. 


i8o         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Hugo  Tigerschiold,  1860- 

THE  SMELTING  FURNACE 

It  lies  there  now  an  ingot  black  and  cold, — 
The  iron  which  erewhile,  a  swift  white  stream, 

Poured  with  a  starry,  multitudinous  gleam 
Out  of  the  furnace  to  the  furrowed  mould. 

So  seethed  a  hot  wave  in  the  poet's  heart. 

Broke  out,  and  in  constraining  form  was  set. 

The  metal,  with  good  luck,  may  ring,  and  yet, 
Alas!  poor  wave,  how  hard  and  cold  thou  art. 

Still,  be  the  metal  good,  mankind  will  have 
That  which  within  another's  heart  again. 

Deep-heated  by  the  flames  of  joy  and  pain. 
May  melt  and  be  once  more  a  living  wave. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS         i8i 

Karl  August  Tavaststjeriia,  1860-1899 

'TIS  GROWING  SO  HUSHED  AROUND  ME 

JVLy  harvest  has  passed  the  reaping, 
The  summer  draws  on  to  its  rest: 
'T  is  growing  as  hushed  around  me, 
As  hushed  as  if  echo  were  sleeping, 
Or  slain  in  the  mountains'  breast. 

My  pinions  of  song  are  weary. 
And  I  too  am  still  at  last. 
'T  is  growing  as  hushed  around  me. 
As  hushed  in  my  room,  and  eerie. 
As  if  an  angel  had  passed. 

All  laughter  has  fled  in  fear  now, 
And  gone  is  each  kindly  guest. 
'T  is  growing  so  hushed  around  me. 
So  hushed  I  can  plainly  hear  now 
My  breathing  short  and  repressed. 

Then  come  the  thoughts  that  have  waited 

Till  I  must  hark  in  the  gloom. 

'T  is  growing  as  hushed  around  me, 

As  hushed  as  the  moment  fated 

For  Death  to  open  my  tomb. 


1 82  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

They  come  now,  one  with  another, 
From  days  of  my  youth  long  sped. 
'T  is  growing  so  hushed  around  me. 
So  hushed  that  I  call  my  mother 
And  father  to  me  in  dread. 

But  they,  both  dead,  cannot  shield  me; 
The  thoughts  come  up  in  a  crowd. 
'T  is  growing  so  hushed  around  me, 
So  hushed  that  at  length  I  yield  me 
To  them,  with  my  forehead  bowed. 

They  soon  are  my  dearest  treasure, 
The  thoughts  that  once  could  affright. 
For  all  is  so  hushed  around  me. 
So  hushed  that  they  at  their  pleasure 
Commune  with  me  through  the  night. 

I  live  with  them  unrebelling, 
I  grieve  with  them  and  am  gay. 
For  all  is  as  hushed  around  me. 
As  hushed  as  if  I  were  dwelling 
Where  life  had  withered  away. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS          183 

Gust  of  Frbding,  1 86'o-i  91 1 

THE  CITY  LIEUTENANT 

Who's  coming  there,  who 's  riding  there?  He  prances 

with  a  zest ! 
As  gorgeous  as  a  pennant, 
'T  is  he,  the  bold  lieutenant. 
The  girls  from  windows  spy  him. 
The  wistful  house-maids  eye  him. 
He  sits  his  gallant  charger  like  a  monarch  of  the  best. 
By  heaven!  but  he's  handsome  in  his  snow-white  vest. 

He  sparkles  in  the  sunlight,  ev'ry  button,  braid,  and  hook, 

His  polished  boots  are  gleaming. 

Their  radiance  out-streaming. 

His  spine  is  like  an  arrow. 

And  my!  his  waist  is  narrow. 

His  coat  is  like  a  picture  in  the  latest  fashion-book. 

Just  look  at  him,  just  look  at  him,  just  look,  look,  look! 

He  smiles  —  theyoung  lieutenant — as  benignly  as  a  priest, 

And  twirls  his  blond  moustaches 

As  through  the  street  he  flashes. 

Bows  to  the  girls  politely. 

Nods  to  the  maids  more  slightly. 

And  sits  his  gallant  charger  like  a  monarch  of  the  best. 

By  glory !  but  he  's  handsome  in  his  snow-white  vest. 


i84         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

THE  PRAYER-MEETING 

^'i^EAR  friends,  the  wages  of  sin  is  death,  indeed; 
His  sin  was  great,  of  prayer  there  's  urgent  need. 
Young  brother  Anderson  has  gone  astray, 
Become  a  worldling,  left  the  narrow  way." 

Alas!  poor  slaves  of  sin  are  we; 
Lord,  keep  us  from  iniquity. 

"Richly  endowed  beyond  all  priests  he  was 
With  heavenly  grace, — our  youthful  Barnabas. 
His  gifts  of  exhortation,  more  than  human, 
Roused  many  souls,  especially  of  women. 
Pleasant  as  Joseph  was  he  to  behold, 
And  tempted  too  as  Joseph  was  of  old. 
Oh,  my  young  friends,  ye  tread  on  perilous  ground! 
Yet  thought  we  Anderson  was  strong  and  sound. 
And  could  from  devils  win  the  victory; 
But  devils  have  been  mightier  than  he!" 

O  Ichabod,  O  Ichabod, 

How  sin  doth  rage  in  flesh  and  blood ! 

*'A  worthy  widow  for  his  wife  he  gave, 
Steadfast  and  not  too  young,  who  well  might  save 
The  young  man  from  the  snares  of  Satan's  guile 
And  fleshly  lures  of  worldliness,  the  while. 
A  silent,  earnest  woman,  tried  and  true 


GUSTAF  FRODING  185 

Of  heart  was  she,  a  faithful  watcher  too, 
Who  at  her  post  was  ever  diligent 
And  followed  Anderson  where'er  he  went. 
Yet  wisdom  is  but  weakness  here  below, 
As  this  assembly  needeth  not  to  know: 
Our  erring  brother  fled  last  night  away 
With  Fia  Bergman  to  America!" 

Oh,  sin  and  trouble,  griefs  and  fears. 
This  world  is  but  a  vale  of  tears! 


A  SPRING-TIME  SWEETHEART 

(if  I    HAD    HAD   ONE) 

A  GLEAM  of  sunlight  crowned  her, 
As  though  the  morn  were  flinging 
Its  gold  on  her  that  day; 
Her  skirt  was  rippling  round  her 
Like  wild-rose  bushes  clinging, 
And  lilacs  white  that  sway. 

She  came,  her  cheeks  all  glowing 
With  the  soft  breeze's  blowing. 
And  with  the  sulphur  bath  too 
Of  looks  that  neighbors  gave  her 
From  peep-hole,  crack,  and  door; 
While  she  gazed  back  in  wrath  too 
And,  blushing  more  than  ever, 
Grew  prettier  than  before. 


1 86         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Her  bold  bright  eyes  gave  token 
That  all  her  warmth  of  being 
Was  bursting  from  control; 
That  all  the  buds  had  broken, 
And  all  the  brooks  were  freeing 
Their  clamor  in  her  soul. 

I  felt  that  all  the  spring  then, 
With  larks  upon  the  wing  then 
And  wind-flowers  in  her  traces. 
Ran  up  with  glad  embraces 
To  seize  and  capture  me; 
And  kissed  me,  gently  laying 
Her  breast  to  mine,  and  saying: 
"Come,  love  me,  be  near  me. 
And  take  me  up  and  bear  me 
This  instant  home  with  thee!" 


A  LOVE-SONG 

1  PURCHASED  my  love  for  money. 
Else  ne'er  had  I  known  its  might; 

No  less  did  I  sing  to  the  gay  harp-string 
Right  sweetly  of  love's  delight. 

A  dream,  though  it  soon  be  vanished. 
Is  sweet  when  it  answers  our  will; 

And  Eden  to  him  who  is  banished 
Is  beauteous  Eden  still. 


GUSTAF  FRODING  187 

WINTER  NIGHT 

JxiDiNG  more  sedately, 
Let  us  view  the  stately 

Forest  castle  white: 
Marble  is  the  flooring; 
Branches,  whitely  soaring. 

Rise  toward  heaven's  height. 

Not  a  flake  is  stirred  here, 
Not  a  note  is  heard  here 

Of  the  singing  storm; 
Snow  each  nook  encumbers. 
And  beneath  it  slumbers 

Summer's  frozen  form. 

Pillared  ice  upholds  her 
Bed,  and  death  enfolds  her 

In  this  long  repose. 
Curtains  whitely  hover. 
Her  chill  couch  to  cover, 
Watchful  pines  enclose. 

Moonbeams  with  a  bitter 
Cold  metallic  glitter 

Light  the  lonely  hall, 
And  from  all  the  darkling 
Corners  comes  a  sparkling 

As  of  diamonds  all. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Stars,  like  tears  congealing, 
Stud  the  castle  ceiling. 

Rich  with  filigree. 
Spectres  weird  and  gloomy, 
Flit  across  the  roomy 

Chamber  silently. 


THE  OLD  MOUNTAIN  TROLL 

1  HE  evening  draws  on  apace  now. 
The  night  will  be  dark  and  drear; 

I  ought  to  go  up  to  my  place  now. 
But  't  is  pleasanter  far  down  here. 

Mid  the  peaks  where  the  storm  is  yelling 
'T  is  lonely  and  empty  and  cold; 

But  't  is  merry  where  people  are  dwelling, 
In  the  beautiful  dale's  green  fold. 

And  I  think  that  when  I  was  last  here 

A  princess  wondrously  fair, 
Soft  gold  on  her  head,  went  past  here; 

She  'd  make  a  sweet  morsel,  I  swear! 

The  rest  fled,  for  none  dared  linger. 

But  they  turned  when  far  off  to  cry, 
While  each  of  them  pointed  a  finger: 
"What  a  great,  nasty  troll!  oh,  fie!" 


GUSTAF  FRODING  189 

But  the  princess,  friendly  and  mild-eyed, 

Gazed  up  at  me,  object  of  fright, 
Though  I  must  have  looked  evil  and  wild-eyed, 

And  all  fair  things  from  us  take  flight. 

Next  time  I  will  kiss  her  and  hold  her, 

Though  ugly  of  mouth  am  I, 
And  cradle  and  lull  on  my  shoulder. 

Saying:  "  Bye,  little  sweet-snout,  bye!" 

And  into  a  sack  I  '11  get  her. 

And  take  her  home  with  me  straight, 

And  then  at  Yule  I  will  eat  her 
Served  up  on  a  fine  gold  plate. 

But  hum,  a-hum!  I  am  mighty  dumb, — 

Who'd  look  at  me  then  so  kindly? 
I 'm  a  silly  dullard — a-hum,  a-hum!  — 

To  think  the  thing  out  so  blindly. 

Let  the  Christian  child  go  in  peace,  then; 

As  for  us,  we  're  but  trolls,  are  we. 
She  'd  make  such  a  savory  mess,  then. 

It  is  hard  to  let  her  be. 

But  such  things  too  easily  move  us. 

When  we  're  lonely  and  wicked  and  dumb, 

Some  teaching  would  surely  improve  us. 
Well,  I  '11  go  home  to  sleep  —  a-hum! 


190         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 
HOME-COMING 

STROVTAG   I    HEMBYGDEN 
PART   IV 

K^ING  Lily-o'-th'- Valley  so  stately 
He  shines  in  the  grove  snow-whice, 

The  young  king  sorroweth  greatly, 
For  his  frost-slain  princess  bright. 

King  Lily-o'-th'- Valley,  he  sinketh 
His  head  so  heavy  with  care. 

The  light  of  his  helmet  blinketh 
In  the  hueless  evening  air. 

A  shroud  of  cobweb  covers 

The  form  so  fair  in  death, 
While  soft  flower-incense  hovers 

And  fills  the  woods  with  its  breath. 

From  the  birch-tops  mournfully  swinging. 
From  the  wind's  green  bower  on  high 

Wee  songs  of  lament  are  ringing. 
Till  the  woods  are  filled  with  a  sigh. 

Through  the  glades  a  messenger  beareth 
The  sigh  to  each  whispering  leaf, 

Till  all  the  wide  forest  heareth 
Of  Lily-o'-th'-Valley's  grief. 


GUSTAF  FRODING  191 

IDEALISM  AND  REALISM 

1  'm  sick  of  this  new-fangled  schism, 

This  earth-and-stars  dissension: 
Idealism  and  realism, 

Our  brain-devised  contention. 

'T  is  Art  when  dust  is  painted  right. 

They  find  with  false  conclusion. 
A  heavenly  vision,  fair  and  bright. 

Forsooth,  is  cloud-illusion. 

But  though  the  box  be  gold,  yet  snufF 

Is  snufF — so  one  supposes;  — 
And  though  the  vase  be  cracked  and  rough, 

Still  roses  will  be  roses. 

PRINCE  ALADDIN  OF  THE  LAMP 

1  HE  luckless  Prince  Aladdin 
Has  now  no  lamp,  alas! 
He  feels  beneath  his  mantle 
Where  heretofore  it  was. 
His  ring  he  seeks  amain,  too, 
And  finds  it  not  again,  too. 
For  now  no  ring  he  has. 
The  mighty  Prince  Aladdin 
Has  lost  his  wits,  no  doubt. 
And  blindly  gropes  about. 


192  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

He  importunes  the  ether: 
"  Come,  fairy  castle  mine, 
With  pearls  and  rubies  gleaming; 
Ye  halls,  in  radiance  beaming, 
With  white  and  gold  a-shine! 
And  you,  ye  sprites,  fulfil  now 
This  task  with  heedful  care 
And  bring  me  to  my  will  now 
Princess  Bedrulbudour, 
The  moon-mild  maiden  rare!" 

So  reels  along  the  street  here 
Amid  the  thickest  press 
The  mighty  Prince  Aladdin 
In  ragged  helplessness: 
"Come  here  and  see  the  fun, 
Just  listen  to  his  pother; 
The  crazy  tailor's  son 
Thinks  he's  the  Sultan's  brother!" 

"Ye  tailors  and  ye  beggars. 

Ye  know  not  sprites  at  all. 

One  only  needs  to  beckon. 

One  only  needs  to  call: 
'Come,  castle,  come,  come  here!'  " 

He  fixes  then  his  eyes  on 

The  blue  far-off  horizon 

Until  it  shall  appear. 

The  common  people  sneer: 


GUSTAF  FRODING 

"Your  castle's  in  the  moon  there; 
Fly  up  and  you  '11  be  soon  there!" 

Alack!  the  lamp's  poor  owner 

May  never  more  have  rest, 

Nor  may  he  trust  his  fortune 

Who  once  the  ring  possessed. 

He  feels  that  now  no  tittle 

Of  his  good  fortune  brittle 

Is  left  to  him  secure; 

Though  't  is  but  doubts  defeat  him, 

These  childish  errors  cheat  him 

Till  nothing  may  endure. 

The  lamp  is  high  creative  power. 
The  chiefest  strength  of  man ; 
The  magic  ring  is  faith's  rich  dower, 
Wherewith  he  all  things  can. 


LITTLE  JOE-JOHNNY 

LELLE    KARL-JOHAN 

'  1-jITTLE  Joe-Johnny, — 
Is  n't  he  bonny? 

Takes  after  mother,  the  good  little  dear! 
Look  how  he  blows  now 
In  's  fist  his  nose  now 
Just  as  his  pa  does, — Joe-Johnny,  come  here! 


»93 


194         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

"  Look !  how  politely 
He  bows,  and  how  brightly 
Shine  the  long  curls  of  our  little  Joe-Johnny. 
*'        Hoho!  my  sonny 

Has  all  the  manners  of  grown  folk,  you  see. 

Yes,  and  he  's  able  to 

Quote  from  the  Bible  too. 

Well  as  the  dean,  priest,  and  sexton,  all  three. 

''Tell  me,  Joe-Johnny,  what  was  it  that  Moses  — 
Look  how  your  nose  is!  — 
Promised  the  Jews  in  the  words  of  the  law. 
If  they  would  honor  their  pa  and  their  ma? 

"Now  you  shall  hear  why  our  little  Joe-Johnny 
Should  be  a  priest  when  he  's  grown  a  bit  more," 

So  said  his  mother,  caressing  Joe-Johnny. 
But  —  awful  to  tell!  — 
When  she  was  done,  he 
Swore 
Stoutly  and  gruffly:  "Oh,  ma,  go  to  hell!" 

THE  DANCE  BY  THE  ROADSIDE 

I  HEY  danced  by  the  roadside  on  Saturday  night. 
And  the  laughter  resounded  to  left  and  to  right, 

With  shouts  of  "  Hip,  hip ! "  and  of  "  Hey ! "  . 
Nils  Utterman,  famed  as  a  queer  old  freak. 
Sat  there  and  made  his  accordion  squeak 

With  doodely,  doodely,  day! 


GUSTAF  FRODING  195 

There  was  Cottage  Bess, — whose  attractions  are  many, 
She  is  pretty  and  slim,  though  she  has  n't  a  penny. 

She  's  brimful  of  mischief  and  fun. 
There  was  Christie, —  the  wild,  independent  young  lasr 

sie!  — 
And  Biddy  of  Finnthorpe,  and  Tilly,  and  Cassie, 

And  rollicking  Meg  o'  the  Run. 

There  was  Pete  o'  the  Ridge  and  Gus  o'  the  Rise, — 
Who  are  nimble  at  tossing  a  girl  to  the  skies 

And  at  catching  her  when  she  comes  down. 
There  was  Phil  o'  the  Croft  and  Nick  o'  the  Flume, 
And  Tommy  the  Soldier,  and  Jimmy  the  Groom, 

And  Karl-John  of  Taylortown. 

They  danced  as  with  bodies  of  tow  set  afire. 
All  jumping  like  grasshoppers  higher  and  higher. 

And  heel  it  rang  sharp  upon  stone. 
The  coat-tails  they  fluttered,  the  aprons  they  flew. 
And  braids  were  a-flapping  and  skirts  flung  askew. 

While  the  music  would  whimper  and  drone. 

Then  in  birch,  or  in  alder,  or  hazel  thicket 

There  was  whispering  light  as  the  chirp  of  a  cricket 

From  the  depths  of  the  darkness  near. 
Over  stock,  over  stone,  there  was  flight  and  pursuing, 
And  under  green  boughs  there  was  billing  and  cooing — 
"If  you  want  me,  come  have  me  right  here!" 


196  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Over  all  lay  the  twinkling,  star-lovely  night; 
In  the  wood-bordered  bay  a  shimmery  light 

Fell  soft  on  the  waves  as  they  broke. 
A  breeze,  clover-laden,  was  borne  from  the  meadow, 
And  a  whiff  from  the  firs  and  the  pines  that  o'ershadow 

The  hills  with  their  resinous  cloak. 

A  fox  lent  his  voice  to  the  din  of  the  crew, 
And  out  of  the  brambles  an  owl  cried  "Oohoo!" 

But  they  heard  not,  they  heeded  not,  they. 
"  Oohoo ! "  from  Goat  Mountain  the  echo  cried, 
And  to  Utterman's  doodling  in  turn  replied 

With  a  doodely,  doodely,  day! 


PASTORAL 

VALLARELAT 

ijIark  to  the  cowbells,  hark  how  the  singing 
Strays  down  the  meadow  at  evening  fall ! 

Cows  low  their  answer  and  quicken  the  swinging 
Stride  of  their  pace  at  the  milkmaid's  call. 

O'er  heath  and  moorland  the  shrill  notes  flow: 
"Co',  Lily  —  co',  Lily — co',  Lily,  co'!" 
Echoes,  awakening,  northward  go, 
Cliffs  all  replying 
Softly  the  dying 
"Co',  Lily— co',  Lily— co'!" 


GUSTAF  FRODING  197 

Falls  now,  now  rises  the  cowbell's  vibration, 

Till  all  is  hushed  in  the  valley  beneath, 
Still  are  the  woods,  half-asleep  in  their  station. 
Only  the  wandering 
Call  goes  meandering 
Near  and  afar  over  moorland  and  heath. 

Night  comes  apace  with  the  sun's  fading  glimmer, 
See,  on  the  lake,  how  the  vapor  trails ! 

Shades  grow  more  solid,  and  longer,  and  dimmer, 
Quickly  the  dark  o'er  the  forest  prevails. 

Spruces  and  pine-trees  now  sleep  in  the  shadow, 
Dull  grows  the  rush  of  the  cataract's  play. 

Faintly  the  voices  recede  from  the  meadow, 
Wander,  and  scatter,  and  die  far  away. 


A  POOR  MONK  OF  SKARA 

jVIy  life's  on  the  wane  and  I  'm  spent  with  work, 
A  wretched  and  ignorant  renegade  clerk, 
A  runaway  fled  from  his  Order  afar,  a 
Brother  condemned  by  the  chapter  of  Skara. 

I  'm  now  but  an  old  and  broken  man. 
To  Satan  consigned  by  the  Church's  ban 
For  murder  and  obstinate  heresy. 
And  doomed  by  the  King  to  outlawry. 


I  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

When  Lars  the  Canon  I  smote  in  wrath, 
The  brethren  hastened  to  dog  my  path. 
They  hunted  me  like  a  wolf  in  the  wood; 
But  all  that  they  found  was  my  monkish  hood. 

A  surly  and  obstinate  monk  was  I, 

And  many  a  tankard  on  the  sly 

I  drew  from  the  abbot's  well-filled  tun, 

And  sinned  most  vilely  with  a  nun. 

My  muscles  were  iron ;   I  'd  frequent 

The  village  inn  where  the  wastrels  went, 

I  joined  with  a  harlot  and  fiddler  crew, 

And  Lars  Canonicus  I  slew. 

But  misery  came  of  those  evil  days. 

In  a  foreign  land  I  berued  my  ways, 

Eating  husks  whence  the  swine  had  turned, 

Like  the  man  in  a  tale  I  learned. 

I  was  not  quite  in  the  devil's  clutch, — 

Of  good  in  man's  nature  there's  always  much, 

But  I  had  a  stormy  road  to  go. 

As  when  the  blasts  of  the  tempest  blow 

A  fisherman's  boat  on  a  rugged  shore 

And  leave  it  there  broken  and  battered  sore, 

Although  for  rift  and  wound 

Some  help  may  yet  be  found. 

They  shut  me  up  in  a  dismal  cell. 

Then  drove  me  forth  in  the  waste  to  dwell. 

Like  beasts  they  hunted  me  here  and  there — 


GUSTAF  FRODING  199 

Like  beasts  that  fain  would  catch  and  tear. 

They  taught  me  hatred,  sin,  and  deceit. 

While  bitterness  was  my  drink  and  meat. 

I  felt  myself  doomed  to  death  and  damnation, 

In  Satan's  power  beyond  salvation; 

Condemned  to  hell  forever  and  aye, 

I  lusted  now  to  burn  and  slay. 

But  the  sigh  of  the  woods,  the  voice  of  the  stream, 

The  beauty  of  morn's  awakening  gleam. 

And  the  weeping  autumn  rain, — 

These  taught  me  love  again. 

And  dew,  the  brooks,  and  the  bird's  fresh  song, 
The  flowers,  the  elk  as  he  bounded  along. 
And  the  squirrel's  joy  in  the  top  of  the  fir 
Set  life  and  hope  in  my  veins  astir. 
Gave  self-respect  once  more 
And  taught  a  rich  new  lore. 

It  is  not  true,  the  once-learned  story 

That  some  are  shut  out  from  heaven's  glory, 

For  every  soul  may  enter  free; 

Not  as  sheep  and  goats,  but  alike  are  we. 

There  is  no  good  man  who  is  quite  as  good 

As  he  thinks  himself  in  presumptuous  mood, 

Nor  is  there  a  sinner  so  foul  within 

As  he  feels  when  racked  by  the  pangs  of  sin. 

Then  do  not  boast,  my  brother. 

Nor  chide  and  judge  another. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH   LYRICS 

And  he  who  sits  so  mighty  at  Rome, 

For  all  of  me,  must  abide  his  doom. 

With  doctor,  monk,  and  pastor 

And  titled  priest  and  master. 

The  noble  who  sits  so  proud  in  his  tower, 

He  too  must  submit  to  sorrow's  power; 

On  dukes  and  kings  dread  sorrow  falls. 

Yea,  emperors  its  might  appalls; 

We  all  may  go  astray. 

So  wherefore  chide  for  aye? 

Thus  o'er  the  earth  the  people  roam. 
And  not  a  man  knows  whence  we  come. 
And  none  knows  whither  the  way  will  lead, 
And  none  knows  what  is  life,  indeed. 
And  yet  beyond  clouds  of  strife 
There  dawns  a  far  better  life; 
Where  no  one  is  evil,  no  one  good, 
But  as  brothers  all  we  breast  the  flood. 
Each  lending  each  a  hand 
While  struggling  to  the  strand. 

Though  the  world  has  robbed  me  of  honor  here. 
Though  I  sit  alone  in  the  forest  drear. 
And  better  days  may  never  be  mine. 
Yet  I  'II  not  grieve,  I  '11  not  repine: 
The  birds  mount  gaily  toward  the  skies. 
With  every  morn  the  sun  doth  rise, 
The  birch-tree  buds  anew, — 
Why  should  not  I  hope,  too? 


GUSTAF  FRODING 

Perhaps,  when  a  thousand  years  have  flown 
Like  clouds  over  cottage  and  castle  blown, 
A  rider  may  wend  through  the  forest  here. 
May  tether  his  horse  to  a  birch-tree  near, 
May  open  the  door,  peep  in  and  see 
The  outlaw's  den  and  its  misery, 
And  read  this  wretched  scrawl  if  he  will. 
On  parchment  writ  with  a  wild  bird's  quill. 

Then  will  he  say:  "So  long  ago 

Did  this  man  learn  what  we  all  now  know. 

Foreseeing  the  age  that  upon  this  earth 

After  long,  long  strife  has  been  brought  to  birth  ?- 

And  yet  was  he  of  yore  a 

Poor  banished  Monk  of  Skara!" 


"BEHOLD,  THIS  DREAMER  COMETH!" 

IJEHOLD,  this  Dreamer  cometh !  (they  said:) 
Turning  toward  us  his  downcast  head. 

On  lonely  paths  he  wanders  far; 
He  is  not  as  we  others  are. 

He  dreams  that — curse  his  lying  dream!  — 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  all  bow  to  him. 

He  is  our  father's  dearest  son: 
Come,  let  us  slay  him  and  have  done! 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

AN  OLD   ROOM 

1  HERE  is  an  old  low  room  I  love; 
Dark  broken  plaster  spreads  above. 
Near-by  is  heard  the  muffled  tone 
Of  roaring  sluice  and  saw-mill's  drone. 
The  furniture  's  of  ancient  mould, 
Ample,  and  stoutly  made. 
With  curving  legs  of  white  and  gold, 
And  flower-enwrought  brocade. 

Out  of  a  corner,  dim  and  swart 
Stares  a  bronze  bust  of  Bonaparte, 
Who  with  his  white  horse  rides  in  all 
The  pale  engravings  on  the  wall; 
Through  Ulm  and  Austerlitz  they  go. 
At  Beresina  too. 
From  victory  to  overthrow 
At  bloody  Waterloo. 

Karl-Johan  gazes,  white  with  dust. 
Upon  the  Emperor's  gloomy  bust. 
His  royal  nose  is  thin  and  bent. 
His  lips,  though  tight  and  reticent. 
Prepared  to  hurl  forth  accents  dire 
In  thundering  cascade, 
Hot  with  the  heart's  volcanic  fire, 
A  mighty  gasconade. 


GUSTAF  FRODING  203 

A  book-case  old  of  curly  birch, 
Where  massive  carvings  darkly  perch, 
Holds  many  a  poet  of  romance. 
We  see  as  o'er  the  backs  we  glance 
Per  Atterbom  with  all  his  line, 
Tegner,  an  honored  guest; 
Stagnelius,  mystic  and  divine. 
With  Almqvist  and  the  rest. 

A  fly  is  buzzing  on  the  sill, 

The  clock's  long  pendulum  is  still; 

The  languorous  breath  of  jasmine  pours         1  fj  ^ 

From  blooming  bushes  out-of-doors,  ' 

And  pungent  from  a  near-by  vase 

Comes  scent  of  rose-leaf  sear. 

While  glints  the  bright  prismatic  glass 

Of  crystal  chandelier. 

Between  the  windows  there  appears 
A  spinet  dumb  these  sixty  years. 
But  I  can  picture  some  one  there 
In  straw-hued  skirt  upon  the  chair, 
With  corkscrew  curls  and  shawl  of  lace,- 
The  form  is  my  great-aunt's. 
Pale  orange  is  her  faded  face. 
And  dark  her  wide-eyed  glance. 

As  languishing  as  poppy-dreams. 
She  sings  with  tender  tone,  and  seems 


204         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

To  sway  her  head  in  time  to  words 
That  tell  of  love  and  Persian  birds; 
Of  nightingales  that  never  cease, 
And  violets'  perfumed  sighs, 
Of  roses'  pain  and  lilies'  peace 
In  that  far  paradise. 

The  chamber  fills  with  sweetest  scent 
Of  ambergris  and  flowers  blent, 
With  down  of  flitting  butterflies, 
And  such  tinsel  fooleries; 
Till  dainty  little  fairies  dance 
On  tiptoe  through  the  room, 
And  spirit-birds  of  old  romance 
Call  through  the  charmed  gloom. 


DREAMS  IN  HADES 
I 
VJnce, — though  a  lethargy  oppressed  my  brain, - 
Lying  and  brooding,  eyelids  both  ajar, 
I  watched  the  candle's  pale  and  flickering  light 
Burn  low  into  the  socket,  flare  again. 
Glimmer  and  die.  And  then  I  saw  a  star 
That  shimmered  faintly  from  the  depths  of  night. 

The  moon  shone  in,  but  with  so  chill  a  beam 
Methought  't  was  like  St.  Elmo's  fire  in  bloom 
Upon  some  mast  o'er  darkened  waves  below. 


GUSTAF  FRODING  205 

Like  phosphor-wood  or  like  the  moss-fed  gleam 
Of  Will-o'-the-Wisp,  or  when  above  a  tomb 
On  St.  John's  Eve  we  see  a  fitful  glow. 

The  air  was  like  to  earth  which,  thinning,  tends 

To  rise  and  float  as  vaporj  it  was  dim, 

And  peopled  thick  with  weird  and  spectral  things. 

'T  was  as  when  light  with  darkness  meets  and  blends. 

A  druid  sheen,  unnatural  and  grim. 

Such  as  an  ancient  tale  of  witchcraft  brings. 

Dark  forms  I  saw  in  that  strange  atmosphere, 
Dead  races  of  mankind  that  seemed  to  bide 
With  trustful  expectation,  rows  on  rows, 
Until  the  light  of  morning  should  appear; 
Silently  there  they  slumbered  side  by  side. 
Layer  by  layer  in  their  dream-repose. 

Dull  as  a  sea-surge  momently  increased, 
I  heard  the  hum  of  myriad  voices  rise. 
Muffled  as  tones  from  muted  harp-string  sped; 
A  sea  of  murmurs  rushed  from  west  to  east. 
Ascending,  falling,  —  questions  and  replies, — 
And  rolled  like  swelling  billows  to  my  bed. 

II 

Through  the  sounds  I  heard  there 
Ran  a  rhythmic  sway, 
But  in  every  word  there 
Deepest  meaning  lay:  — 


2o6         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Many  a  mystic  token, 
Many  a  searching  tone 
In  the  least  word  spoken, 
With  a  sigh  't  was  gone. 

What  my  cold  and  clever 
Mind  would  fain  have  caught, 
Foiled  my  best  endeavor, 
Was  but  harsh  and  naught. 
Grief  would  seize  impulsive 
On  those  shades  in  death. 
And  a  throe  convulsive 
Rack  and  stop  their  breath. 
Of  that  dream  the  trophy 
Hades  left  with  me 
Was  a  crabbed  strophe 
Limping  wearily. 

Ill 

Clamor  of  Albion's  harp-strings. 
Murmurs  of  song  from  the  Northland. 
Beowulfs  story  or  Fingal's 
Heard  I  or  faintly  perceived  there 
Sounding  in  echoes  through  Hades, 
Dim  and  yet  wondrously  lovely. 

Fables  of  Anglian  monarchs. 
Legends  of  witches  from  Denmark, 
Sad-hearted  Gaelic  traditions, 
Lays  of  the  Grail  and  of  Merlin 


GUSTAF  FRODING  207 

Filled  mine  ears  full  with  the  strains  of 
Heathenish  bards  from  aforetime. 


Half-Christian  gnostic  magicians, 
Wise  men  who  dwell  in  the  Eastland; 
Seers  with  druidical  knowledge 
Such  as  men  seek  in  the  hidden 
Depths  of  philosopher's  stones, — 
These  filled  with  visions  my  chamber. 

IV 

I  saw  a  sleeper's 

Chin  uplifted, 

From  which  a  black  beard 

O'er  silver  mail 

Flowed  soft  and  graceful. 

Above  the  collar 

Arose  a  visage 

Proud  and  pale. 

I  saw  a  singer's 
Mournful  forehead, 
Dark  hair  encircling 
The  features  all. 
And  vision-haunted 
Were  lips  that  erstwhile 
Had  sung  perchance  in 
King  Arthur's  hall. 

I  saw  his  death-dim 
Eyes  unclosing 


2o8         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

To  seek  for  someone 
He  found  not  there; 
Once  more  he  closed  them, 
And  in  that  moment 
The  apparition 
Dissolved  in  air. 

But  long  thereafter 
I  heard  soft  accents 
Telling  melodious 
Their  gloomy  tale, 
A  half-forgotten 
Minstrel  saga 
From  some  far  Welshland 
Or  English  dale. 

Did  I  not  love  a  maiden 

Was  kind  and  fair  to  see? 

Did  I  not  sleep,  and,  dreaming,  lay 

My  head  upon  her  knee. 

While  the  red  sun  behind  the  oaks 

Was  sinking  mistily? 

Gave  she  not  me  a  bridal  night 
Graced  by  the  stars'  pale  sheen, 
As  o'er  us  leafy  branches  swayed 
Their  canopy  of  green. 
While  willows  waved  and  ripples  beat 
The  reeds  and  rocks  between  ? 


GUSTAF  FRODING  209 

Her  lord's  gold  chain,  she  gave  me  — 

Yea,  all  she  gave  me  now, — 

She  fitted  it  about  my  head 

And  wound  it  o'er  my  brow; 

Her  soul  she  gave,  and  for  my  sake 

She  broke  her  holy  vow. 

Long  did  we  drink  in  secret 
Of  carnal  love  our  fill. 
What  time  with  melancholy  smile 
We  loved  through  good  and  ill; 
We  loved  in  sin  and  rapture, 
In  shame  and  joy  loved  still. 

But  now  I  hear  a  monk's  voice 
That  speaks  with  accents  dread: 
"  Fair  is  this  life  to  look  upon, 
The  cheeks  of  love  are  red; 
But  now  thy  loved  one's  hue  is  pale, 
Osviva  now  is  dead. 

"  Osviva  now  shall  slumber 
Full  long  in  cold  repose, 
For  slumber,  dreams,  and  death  at  last, — 
All  these  she  freely  chose. 
And,  unrepentant,  never 
To  heaven  her  spirit  goes." 

Monk,  it  is  writ  in  legends. 
By  sibyls  it  is  said 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

That,  when  the  latest  autumn 
Its  latest  leaf  has  shed, 
The  Great  Deliverer  visits 
The  city  of  the  dead. 

If  ages  have  passed  o'er  me 
Since  I  was  dead  and  gone. 
The  day  then  is  approaching, 
I  feel  it  soon  will  dawn. 
When  the  Delivering  Spirit 
Will  free  us  every  one! 

Like  seas  in  motion 

When  the  winds  drive  them. 

Like  a  wave  speeding, 

The  whisper  went, 

To  tell  of  dawn  in 

The  night  of  Hades, 

A  mystic  message 

Of  wonderment. 

Soon  sank  the  murmur 
Deep  in  the  darkness. 
Where  on  dream-pinions 
My  spirit  soared, 
Then  the  strange  promise 
Rose  up  before  me, — 
In  mocking  vision, 
In  mystic  word. 


GUSTAF  FRODING  211 

Over  the  features 
Fell  for  a  moment 
A  gleam  of  brighter 
Light  than  before, 
But  it  was  soft  as 
A  ray  of  moonlight 
Falling  from  Life's  night 
Through  Hades'  door. 


"SIGH,  SIGH,  RUSHES!" 

OIGH,  sigh^  rushes! 
Moan^  waves ^  moan! 
Can  ye  not  tell  where  Ingalill^ 
Sweet  Ingalill  has  gone? 

She  cried  like  a  wounded  duck  as  she  sank  in  the  sea- 
When  spring  last  was  green,  that  would  be. 

She  had  wakened  the  wrath  of  the  towns-folk  there. 
An  evil  wrath  that  she  might  not  bear. 

She  wakened  their  wrath  by  her  goods  and  gold 
And  the  love  she  bore  for  her  lover  bold. 

With  a  thorn  they  pierced  an  eyeball  through^ 
With  mud  they  defiled  a  lily  s  dew. 
Then  sing^  oh^  sing  your  song  of  grief\ 
Te  little  waves^for  my  heart's  relief! 
Sigh,  sigh,  rushes! 
Moan,  waves,  moan! 


212  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

MOUNTAIN  TROLLS 

"  Well,  you  may  believe  me  or  may  not  believe  me; 
But  't  was  this  way  it  was,  and  the  devil  may  have  me 
If  't  was  n't  a  troll-pack  that  caught  me  one  night. 
We  had  charge  of  a  furnace  in  Westerly  Moor, 
And  the   night  was  nigh   finished,  the  clock  stood   at 

four. 
When  the  racket  began  and  Peer  jumped  up  in  fright. 
It  crashed  round  the  peaks  and  it  roared  in  the  valley 
Like  bellowing  oxen  up  yonder,"  said  Ole. 

"They  tramped  and  they  stamped  from  all  points  of  the 
compass. 
And  't  was  funny,  but  God  !  it  was  trolls  made  the  rum- 
pus. 
Like  the  big  church  at  Bogen  they  looked,  as  they  rose 
Through  the  trees,  which  resounded  with  thunder  and 

thud; 
There  was  crackling  and  groaning  all  over  the  wood. 
For  the  firs  were  like  straws  to  such  lubbers  as  those. 
And  Peer  he  crouched  under  the  root  of  a  tree 
And  I  by  a  big  pile  of  charcoal,"  said  he. 

"Like  the  clashing  of  iron  the  noise  of  them  rang, 
For  they  'd  arms  like  steam-hammers,  had  some  of  the 

gang; 
And  their  fists  were  like  rocks  that  the  old  giants  tum- 
bled; 


GUSTAF  FRODING  213 

Some  had  mouths  Hke  a  mine-shaft,  and  added  to  that, 
Some  had  thatch  Hke  the  roof  of  a  shed  for  a  hat; 
And  some  sent  out  fire  like  a  furnace  that  rumbled; 
Some  had  snouts  big  as  iron  steam-cranes  in  their  head, — 
By  golly!  it  was  a  bit  scary,"  he  said. 

*'They  sat  round  the  furnace  and  roasted  huge  steaks 
Of  pig-iron,  and  made  themselves  broth  out  of  spikes. 
And  ate  ploughs  as  we  'd  munch  upon  chicken  or  lamb. 
Then  all  round  the  furnace  the  trolls  began  dancing 
So  it  looked  just  like  houses  and  churches  a-prancing. 
And  it  sounded  like  thunder,  the  clash  and  the  slam. 
I  've  been  down  to  town  and  seen  many  a  spree. 
But  I  never  saw  dance  up  to  that  one,"  said  he. 

"And  as  I  lay  there  like  a  bundle  of  clouts. 
Came  a  troll  up  with  one  of  the  ugliest  snouts 
And  snifled  me  and  turned  my  poor  body  around. 

'Look  sharp  here,  look  out  if  you  don't  smell  a  rat! 
Here  's  a  bit  of  old  meat,'  said  the  troll;  but  with  that 
Of  a  sudden  the  sun  had  come  up  with  a  bound. 

'The  sun  's  here,'  says  I,  'and  the  east  is  all  red.' 
They  snorted  and  took  to  their  heels  then,"  he  said. 

"It  was  something;  terrific  to  hear  the  hills  rumble. 
As  the  pack  of  them  rushed  to  the  north  in  a  jumble 
And  scurried  away  all  together  up  north. 
Still  the  huts  seemed  to   fight  from  the  way  they  were 
shaking. 


214         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

For  ore-house  and  coal-house  and  smithy  were  quaking, 
And  as   if  turning   cartwheels,  they  swayed  back  and 

forth. 
Yes,  trolls  hate  the  sun  just  as  I  should  fear  truly 
To  lie  or  to  draw  the  long  bow,"  finished  Ole. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  215 

Ola  Hansson,  1860- 

FROM  "SONGS  OF  HOME" 
I 

UuLL  and  muffled  now  the  tumult  of  the  city  comes  to 
me: 

Wagons  rattle,hoofs  arc  thudding,  amid  laughs  and  shouts 
of  glee. 

Through  the  open  window  pouring,  floods  the  sultry  sum- 
mer air. 

And  I  see  the  sunlight  shining,  and  the  heavens,  how  blue 
and  fair! 

On  the  table  just  before  me,  gray  and  blurred,  the  paper 

lies. 
And  I  look  its  columns  over  thoughtlessly  with  hurried 

eyes. 
Dear  old  village  names  are  in  it,  and  to  me  the  pictures 

come 
Of  the  people  as  they  read  it  in  the  cottages  at  home. 

By  the  window  sits  the  grandsire  in  his  leather-covered 

chair, 
While  through  darkened  panes  the  daylight  faintly  tails 

and  lingers  there. 
How  the  old  man  spells  the  fine  print  through  his  goggles 

rimmed  with  brass, 
And  the  pages  crisply  rustle  as  his  smoothing  fingers  pass! 


2i6         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

And  I  see  around  the  table  how  the  farm-girls  read  it,  too, 
By  the  faint  and  pallid  glimmer  of  the  lamp-light  when  he 's 

through, 
Arms   about  each  other's   necks   the   while  their  fingers 

rough  and  brown 
Roam  the  gray  and  crumpled   pages,  line   by   line   each 

column  down. 

And  outside  I  see  the  walls  shine  white  beneath  their  mossy 

thatch. 
And  the  light  green  of  the  chestnuts  and  the  elms  I  faintly 

catch, 
And  I  hear  the  myriad  plant-life  growing  on  the  earth's  wide 

breast. 
While  the  vernal  May-day  softly  sinks  into  its  evening  rest. 

And  I  feel  a  subtle  perfume  from  that  dingy  page  upcoil. 
Sweet  as  scent  of  budding  flowers,  strong  as  scent  of  field 

and  soil. 
And  a  rich,  pulsating  music  seems  to  billow  through  it  all, 
In  whose  quiet  swell  is  mingled  song  of  lark  and  lap- wing 

call. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS         217 

Oscar  Levertin,  1862-1906 

SOLOMON'S  HYMN  TO  THE  MOON 

L-iRESCENT  moon,  again  you  're  filling 

All  the  sable  heavens  with  light, 

Urging  the  sad  poet  on  to  sing, 

Spilling 

Beams  like  silver  fishes  bright 

Till  they  flood  the  depths  of  every  spring. 

Night  is  drowned  in  bridal  splendor. 

Like  a  charmed  bird  the  tender 

Heart  bounds  high,  'twixt  grief  and  glee. 

Garden  sphinxes  leer  at  me. 

Blood  you  sway  and  billows  roaring, 

Breasts  of  women  you  control. 

And  you  sting  the  sleeper  in  his  trance, 

Pouring 

Melancholy  on  the  soul. 

In  your  beams  the  fool  is  fain  to  dance. 

In  your  spark-rain  serpents  wallow. 

Watch-dop-s  lift  their  howlings  hollow. 

Hot  hands  pray  imploringly. 

Garden  sphinxes  leer  at  me. 

Gray  my  forehead,  I  forget  not; 
I  have  known  the  fatal  snare. 
Nature's  lure  of  silent  restlessness. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Let  not, 

Moon,  your  cold  majestic  stare 

Dupe  the  heart  with  longing  and  distress! 

Rouse  no  more  the  blood,  the  ocean, 

Stir  not  women  with  emotion ! 

Weary,  evermore  I  see 

Garden  sphinxes  leer  at  me. 

Sink,  O  stupor  of  delight,  now 

On  the  world,  forever  freeze 

Woman's  breast  upon  her  lover's  mouth, 

Blight  now 

Love's  fair  shrine  amid  the  trees! 

Drink  the  font  of  life  and  leave  a  drouth! 

By  the  empty  pools  lie  sleeping 

Lovers  in  the  moonlight  steeping, 

Happy  that  no  more  they  see 

Yonder  shapes  that  leer  at  me. 


BEATRICE 

LyiKE  the  first  swallow  in  the  spring  returning, 
Fly  through  the  night-blue  air  to  yon  far  place. 
My  song,  and  gently  unto  her  whose  face 
Is  hid  from  me,  oh,  tell  my  sad  life's  y^^rning. 

Fly,  sono;,  thou  only  know'st  beyond  forgetting 

My  bosom's  loneliness 

And  grief  that  burns  in  springtime's  fairest  hours. 


OSCAR  LEVERTIN  219 

And  thou  alone  dost  know  the  fiery  fretting 
Of  this  my  keen  distress. 

The  sun  no  longer  gleams  through  forest  bowers. 
Through  misted  panes  I  see  how  evening  lowers. 
Night  soon  will  spread  her  starrv  tent  on  high, 
And  with  a  faltering  wing  my  dream  will  fly 
Where  shadows  do  not  tell  of  night  returning. 

For  there  the  sunlight  ever  is  descending 

On  groves  of  cypress  blue, 

There  ever  glow  the  flame-red  beams  of  even 

On  fruit-trees  under  snowy  blossoms  bending. 

And  splash  with  sun-bright  hue 

The  lilies  that  beneath  yon  boughs  have  thriven. 

But  that  land  lies  beyond  the  rim  of  heaven, 

The  pale  horizon  bounds  it  like  a  wall. 

Yon  garden  where  the  cool,  blue  shadows  fall 

Lies  evermore  beyond  mine  eyes'  discerning. 

But,  song,  do  thou,  on  whose  transparent  pinions 

No  bonds  of  clay  have  might, 

Pass  o'er  the  skyey  tracts  within  my  vision, 

Directing  unto  fancy's  fair  dominions 

Thy  summer-gleaming  flight 

To  where  within  some  fruit-tree  grove  Elysian 

Dwells  Beatrice.  Oh,  let  her  know  thy  mission 

From  me  who  tarry  in  the  dark  sad  world; 

While  from  the  boughs  the  petals  white  and  curled 

Fall  on  her  dress,  reveal  my  spirit's  yearning. 


JO         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH   LYRICS 

What  is  eternal  in  my  life's  commotion, 

What's  winged  in  my  thought, 

All  rays  of  sunlight  through  my  senses  streaming. 

Are  fibres  from  the  web  of  my  devotion 

To  her.  'T  was  she  who  taught 

All  the  sad  passion  of  my  poet-dreaming 

Made  into  song  by  twilight's  pensive  gleaming, 

When  evening's  dark  regret  weighed  hard  on  me  — 

Tell  it  not  thus,  but  sweetly  as  may  be, 

O  song,  thou  swallow  with  the  spring  returning. 


THE  ARTIST 

I  ou,  O  lonely  mountain-peak, 
Only  you  have  known  me. 
Unto  you  my  heart  may  speak 
Though  no  friends  will  own  me. 
I'm  by  other  joys  possessed. 
Other  griefs  o'ertake  me. 
They  who  would  be  tenderest 
In  my  need  forsake  me. 
They  but  judged  by  what  they  saw, 
Missed  my  inner  nature; 
Took  for  mine  their  spirits'  law. 
Failed  to  read  one  feature. 
Mountain-cold  toward  every  one 
I,  when  warm  they  thought  me; 
Cold  I  seemed,  when  to  a  sun 
Fiery  passions  wrought  me. 


OSCAR  LEVERTIN 

Fouled  with  scorn  by  all  and  each 
Was  my  love's  pure  fountain  — 
Vainly  to  the  dalesmen  preach 
Dwellers  of  the  mountain. 
Hail,  O  mountain  solitude. 
Sunlit,  icy-crested! 
Lone  too  is  my  artist  mood 
Where  the  light  hath  rested. 
I  have  visions  none  can  see: 
Stars  o'er  lakes  that  shimmer; 
Ships  of  dream  glide  under  me. 
White  sails  all  a-glimmer. 
Close  to  God's  mysterious  fane. 
Rapt  in  soul  and  free  there, 
I  may  quaff  the  blue  disdain 
Of  the  crystal  ether. 


AN  OLD  NEW-YEAR'S  SONG 

Dtephen  ostler  now  doth  drive 
To  the  spring  his  horses  five. 

Clear  the  night  is  glowing. 
Jesus  placed  them  in  his  guard. 
And  has  set  within  the  yard 

Life's  pure  waters  flowing. 

Hark!  the  clock  strikes  twelve,  and  out 
To  the  courtyard  throngs  the  rout; 
Deep  the  snow  has  drifted. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Heaven's  vault  is  high  and  blue, 
Where  the  moon  and  wee  stars  too 
Shining  are  uplifted. 

Love's  bold  charger  leads  the  way, 
Gallant  as  the  sun  in  May, 

Decked  as  for  a  wedding; 
Bridle  all  of  flowers  fair, 
Saddle  wrought  of  rose-leaves  rare 

Sewn  with  silver  threading. 

Fortune's  mare  neighs  lustily. 
Shoes  and  trappings  gold  has  she, 

Well  she  knows  hard  riding; 
Seeks  the  land  of  Dream-Desire 
And  the  sunset's  golden  fire 

In  the  west  subsiding. 

Slowly  after  Fortune's  steed 
Stumbles  out  the  nag  of  Need, 

Drab  and  melancholy. 
Hungry  he  and  hollow-eyed, 
Seeks  for  chafF  on  every  side 

As  he  limps  on  slowly. 

Mid  the  willows  lingering, 
Like  a  dark  and  spectral  thing, 
Sorrow's  horse  moves  onward. 


OSCAR  LEVERTIN 

Stonily  his  gaze  is  sent 
Upward,  but  his  head  is  bent 
Ever  deeply  downward. 

Last  appears  with  mane  of  gray, 
Like  old  age's  final  day 

On  the  sky  encroaching, 
With  a  sudden  beat  of  hoof. 
Like  to  earth  on  coffin-roof. 

Death's  pale  horse  approaching. 

Stephen  ostler  now  doth  drive 
To  the  spring  his  horses  five; 

Bright  the  water  shimmers. 
Torches  burn  in  heaven's  hall. 
Gracious  Jesus,  help  us  all 

Now  that  New  Year  glimmers ! 


ITHACA 

JLiKE  to  a  stranger  in  a  foreign  strand 

I  've  dreamed  —  God  knows  how  oft. 
Now  I  go  home.  Already,  far  from  land 

I  hear  the  storm  aloft. 
To  unknown  realms  beyond  the  pillared  gates 

Of  mighty  Heracles 
I  steer  me  where  the  isle  of  islands  waits 

Enshrined  in  sapphire  seas. 


223 


224         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

There,  sunlit  in  yon  ocean's  broad  expanse, 

Lies  Ithaca,  mine  isle. 
Where  the  white-arching  boughs  of  fruit-trees  glance, 

And  billows  die  the  while 
Mid  sedge,  as  dies  a  harp's  faint  evening  song. 

Love-muffled,  on  the  ear. 
There,  be  the  voyage  ne'er  so  hard  and  long. 

My  vessel  I  v/ould  steer. 

For  there  will  stand  the  cool  white  marble  house 

In  which  I  fain  would  dwell. 
Above  will  sigh  the  silver  poplar  boughs 

That  guard  while  I  rest  well. 
Ye  waves  of  life,  I  'm  weary  of  your  foam ! 

Dim  forces  rise  in  me 
Urging  toward  Ithaca,  my  heart's  true  home. 

My  bright  isle  in  the  sea. 

On  the  way  homeward  absently  I  hear 

The  noise  of  life's  alarm. 
As  though  I  heard  a  stranger  who  came  near 

And  took  me  by  the  arm. 
Brothers,  though  still  I  walk  here  as  do  ye. 

Of  ills  here  unafraid. 
Smiling,  I  greet  the  future's  mystery. 

For  my  account  is  made. 

More  strongly  meanwhile  do  I  feel  the  urge 
Of  music  every  day, 


\ 


OSCAR  LEVERTIN  225 

The  evening  echo  of  the  beating  surge 

Within  mine  island's  bay. 
Leaned  o'er  the  waves,  I  watch  as  in  a  spell 

The  dolphins  flashing  past. 
No  isle  's  in  sight,  but  almond  perfumes  tell 

That  I  'm  approaching  fast. 

Still  will  I  bear  as  much  as  any  man 

May  bear  of  misery, 
For  this  I  know,  that  no  one  ever  can 

Tell  my  heart's  Odyssey. 
My  trifling  griefs  and  joys  —  their  tinsel  gleams 

As  dust  to  dust  I  fling. 
Now  that  my  boat  nears  Ithaca,  my  dreams' 

Bright  island  of  the  spring. 


MONICA 

JVloNiCA,  mother,  the  leaves  are  falling; 

Stripped  by  the  scythe,  the  fields  lie  drear. 
The  chill  of  winter's  first  breath  appalling 

Strikes  on  my  heart  in  the  forest  sere. 
Heavy  each  thought  and  weary  each  limb, 
Endless  the  home-leading  roadway  dim. 

Dumbly  now  by  the  hearth  you  're  bending. 
Red  is  the  woof  in  your  shuttle's  play. 

Red,  too,  the  glow  that  the  fire  is  sending 
On  wrinkled  cheek  and  on  hair  grown  gray, 


226         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Sharp  is  the  gust  of  the  evening  air 

While  you  weave  the  cloth  for  your  son  to  wear. 

Closed  are  your  lips,  for  speech  too  weary, 
Listless  your  eyes  that  strain  in  the  gloom. 

Shadows,  gathering  ever  more  dreary. 
Sink  like  a  weight  on  the  silent  room; 

Burnt  logs  tumble  down  one  by  one 

While  ceaseless  you  weave  for  your  wayward  son. 

Monica,  mother,  with  bitter  measure 

Is  brimmed  each  draught  that  this  life  affords. 

In  man,  in  woman,  I  find  no  pleasure, 
My  lips  are  sated  with  kisses  and  words. 

Far  from  life's  road  is  my  heart's  desire; 

I  long  for  home  and  your  failing  fire. 

Eyes  that  betray  as  they  smile  their  caressing 
I  'd  leave  for  yours  with  their  fading  glow; 

Yours  is  the  hand  I  would  choose  for  pressing, 
Yours  that  is  withered  and  wasted  so; 

No  song  delights  me  except  the  sound 

Of  your  whirring  loom  on  its  monotone  round. 

All  earthly  longings  and  lures  that  cheat  me 
Die  of  their  din  at  length  in  my  breast. 

I  would  go  home,  on  a  stool  I  'd  seat  me 
Close  by  your  chair,  and  take  my  rest, 

While  autumn  winds  bore  the  stifling  reek 

Out  of  the  ashes  against  my  cheek. 


OSCAR  LEVERTIN 

So,  till  your  hand  has  fulfilled  the  weaving 

Of  my  life's  fabric,  I  'd  sit  aloof. 
The  warp  is  my  life  of  gloom  and  grieving, 

But  through  it  all  runs  your  love's  red  woof; 
Like  a  mother's  love,  the  strong  red  thread 
Abides  in  the  hour  of  death  and  dread. 

Monica,  mother,  the  fields  are  wasted; 

Frost-arrows  flew,  and  their  green  host  fell. 
The  leaves  at  winter's  rude  breath  have  hasted 

Earthwards,  to  moulder  in  wood  and  dell. 
Heavy  each  thought  and  weary  each  limb. 
Endless  the  home-leading  roadway  dim. 


227 


228  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH   LYRICS 

Erik  Axel  Karljeldt,  1864- 

TIME  OF  WAITING 

OWEETEST  is  the  time  of  waiting, 

Time  of  floods,  of  buds  dilating, 

May  has  naught  so  captivating 

As  a  clearing  April  noon. 

Let  not  miry  paths  befool  you. 

Then  the  dampened  woods  will  cool  you, 

And  you  '11  hear  the  leaves'  low  croon. 

Not  in  summer  joys  I  'd  wallow. 

Give  me  but  the  blades  that  follow 

Melting  snows  in  pine-dark  hollow. 

And  the  earliest  thrush's  tune. 


Best  the  lover's  time  of  waiting. 

Of  betrothal  ere  the  mating. 

Spring  has  naught  so  captivating 

As  a  secret  sweetheart  fair. 

Seldom  with  her,  soon  asunder, 

He  will  dream  the  strange  wild  wonder 

Life  so  soon  for  him  may  bear. 

Golden  fruit,  let  others  shake  it, 

Mine  be  not  the  hand  to  take  it, 

For  my  garden  I  'd  forsake  it 

When  the  trees  are  budding  there. 


ERIK  AXEL  KARLFELDT  229 

PRELUDE 

TO  "fridolin's  pleasure-garden" 

JVIy  muse  dwelleth  not  on  Parnassus, 
Her  home  is  on  Purse-Maker's  Nest. 

Like  sunset  the  cheek  of  the  lass  is, 
When  eve  soothes  the  valley  to  rest. 

May  poets  be  crowned  but  with  laurel! 

May  not  Dalecarlia  spare 
A  wreath  with  which  no  one  need  quarrel 

To  lay  on  a  bard's  flowing  hair?    , 

Your  Pegasus,  haughty  of  form,  is 

A  noble  and  excellent  steed. 
But  one  I  'd  prefer  in  a  storm  is 

A  colt  of  our  own  mountain  breed. 

With  iron  spurs  gleaming  and  jangling 
We  stumble  through  thicket  and  brake. 

Like  the  grouse-cock  my  lyre  is  a-twangling. 
And  oh,  what  a  clatter  we  make! 

For  the  seven-hued  bridge,  o'er  which  passes 

The  bard  to  the  halls  of  the  blest. 
Gilds  the  myrtle-clad  heights  of  Parnassus, 

And  the  rowans  of  Purse-Maker's  Nest. 


230         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

SONG  AFTER  HARVEST 

Fridolin  dances  free, 

And  full  of  sweet  wine  is  he, — 

Of  the  berry's  juice,  and  the  wheat-field's  dower, 

And  the  whirl  of  the  waltz-melodie. 

With  the  tails  of  his  long  coat  over  his  arm 

He  dances  full  many  a  partner  warm. 

Till  she  leans  on  his  breast  like  a  drooping  flower, 

Overcome  by  his  manly  charm. 

Fridolin  dances  free. 

He  is  filled  with  the  memory 

Of  his  sire  and  grandsire  who  danced  there  long 

Before  to  that  old  melodie. 

Ye  sleep  now,  ye  sires,  on  the  festival  night. 

And  stilled  is  the  hand  that  could  fiddle  with  might. 

For  your  life  —  like  your  day  —  is  a  murmuring  song 

Which  echoes  a  wistful  delight. 

But  Fridolin  dances  free, — 

Your  son,  and  a  brave  lad  he; 

He  can  talk  in  the  peasant  style  with  a  churl. 

And  in  Latin  to  men  of  degree. 

His  scythe  goes  sharp  through  the  harvest's  gold, 

He  is  proud  of  the  store  that  his  granaries  hold, 

Toward  the  moon's  red  saucepan  he  tosses  his  girl 

Like  a  man  of  your  stalwart  mould. 


ERIK  AXEL  KARLFELDT  231 

IMAGINED  HAPPINESS 

r  ROM  a  poverty-shadowed  life 

In  the  night  of  my  lone  distress 
I  sing  unto  you,  my  hoped-for  wife. 

My  treasure  of  queenliness. 
I  paint  in  my  hours  of  dreaming 

With  flying  brush,  till  the  lines    • 
Of  your  haloed  features  are  gleaming 

On  a  background  of  shadowy  pines. 

With  pink  of  the  cranberry  bright 

Your  wistful  mouth  I  've  expressed. 
With  soft  mosses  red  and  white 

Have  hinted  your  throat  and  breast. 
From  birch-leaves  in  autumn  turning 

I  caught  the  right  gold  for  your  hair. 
But  your  smile  has  a  touch  of  yearning 

I  never  could  capture  there. 

You  dwell  in  a  splendor  of  light, 

You  float  as  on  music  of  strings. 
But  you  love  the  sigh  of  the  wood's  deep  night 

And  the  song  that  the  wild  thicket  sings. 
From  empty  display  that  o'erpowers, 

From  pleasures  that  cloy  without  cease. 
You  long  for  the  grasses,  the  flowers. 

For  silence,  oblivion,  and  peace. 


232         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

When  your  will  is  on  fire  some  day 

And  doubt  may  no  more  restrain, 
You  '11  come  of  yourself  on  the  fateful  way 

You  ne'er  can  retrace  again. 
I  sing,  I  exult  at  the  meeting, 

My  glad  heart  leaps  on  its  throne; 
We  melt  at  the  passionate  greeting 

For  all  of  our  lives  into  one. 

From  a  poverty-shadowed  life 

In  the  night  of  my  lone  distress 
I  proudly  cry:  "Would  you  be  my  wife. 

Then  count  not  the  more  and  less!" 
Your  beauty  in  that  sweet  hour 

Will  richly  adorn  our  nest. 
For  happiness  is  your  dower. 

Your  morning-gift  is  rest. 


IN  THE  ELK  SEASON 

JriE  comes  to  the  oat-field  each  night  to  feed. 
From  the  croft  you  see  him  plainly, — 

The  mighty  beast,  that  with  toilsome  heed 
I  've  followed  all  day  so  vainly. 

All  else  is  asleep  in  the  full  moon's  glow. 
But  with  hot  hunter's  lust  I  'm  waking 

Behind  the  hedge  where  the  willows  grow. 
No  breath  the  silence  is  breaking. 


ERIK  AXEL  KARLFELDT  233 

Then  he  steps  from  the  pines  with  a  stately  mien 

As  though  from  his  autumn  castle, 
He  strides  like  a  monarch  with  gait  serene, 

The  leaves  round  his  antlers  rustle. 

Through  the  misty  wavering  moonlight  stream 

I  watch  him  peacefully  roam  there; 
Fantastic  of  form,  as  though  like  a  dream 

Of  the  forest  primeval  he  'd  come  there. 

He  seems  to  me  now  far  more  than  a  beast. 

Yea,  more  than  a  human  creature; 
A  prouder  lord  of  the  wilds  at  least, 

A  first-born  son  of  Dame  Nature. 

Again  my  hunter's  blood  runs  hot. 

But  I  pause  ere  I  pull  the  trigger: 
I  have  not  the  heart  to  send  a  shot 

At  that  moonlit  majestic  figure. 

To  win  such  a  prize  by  fraud  were  a  shame, 
So  back  through  the  thicket  of  willow 

I  creep.  To-morrow  we  '11  start  our  game 
As  usual,  my  fine  fellow. 

We  '11  then  play  fair.  Your  legs  are  good. 

And  you  will  be  finely  started; 
If  I  can  but  catch  you  in  the  wood, 

I  shall  not  be  moonshine-hearted. 


234         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

And  if  but  my  trembling  hand  be  sure 
When  I  aim  at  your  mighty  shoulder, 

My  shot  will  ring  over  heath  and  moor, 
And  my  horn  from  boulder  to  boulder. 

I  '11  gloat  on  each  prong  of  the  antlered  head 
Which  proudly  you  once  could  carry. 

And  glad  o'er  the  dewy  hills  I  '11  tread 
At  eve  with  my  royal  quarry. 


THE  VIRGIN  MARY 

FROM   "poems   on    DALECARLIAN    PAINTINGS " 

UHE  's  coming  down  the  meadow  from  the  hall  of  Sju- 

gareby, 
A  little  maid  with  cheeks  as  fair  as  almond  flowers  to  see, 
As  almond  flowers  and  wild-rose  flowers  where  town  may 

never  be, 
Or  road  where  dust  of  traflic  soils  and  smothers. 
What  pathway  have  you  followed,  that  your  cheek  was 

never  burned? 
What  have  you  dreamed,  O  Mary,  what  has  your  bosom 

learned. 
That  your  blood  burneth  not  as  that  of  others? 
Around  your  hair  uncovered  a  strange  effulgence  glows, 
Your  brow  is  like  the  crescent  moon  that  beameth. 
When  over  Meadow  Mountain  all  white  and  bent  it  goes 
And  through  the  leafy  blackthorn  stems  it  gleameth. 


ERIK  AXEL  KARLFELDT  235 

The  cooling  winds  of  even  set  the  columbine  asway, 
The  lilies'  yellow  bells  ring  in  the  peaceful  holy  day; 
The  kids  are  hardly  bleating,  the  colts  will  hardly  neigh, 
From  nest  and  grove  come  faintest  chirpings  only. 
And  now  the  young  Dalecarlian  lads  and  girls  go  pair  by 

pair; 
But  you  the  flower  of  all  of  them,  whom  each  lad  longs  to 

wear, 
Why  have  you  come  to  ponder  here  so  lonely? 
You  look  as  would  a  virgin,  by  her  first  communion  stirred, 
Who  on  Whitsunday  night  her  watch  is  keeping 
While  thinking  of  the  Bread  of  Life  and  all  that  she  has 

heard 
Until  her  heart  with  ecstasy  is  leaping. 

Turn  back,  turn  back,  O  Mary,  for  dark  is  evening's  brow. 
Your  mother  must    be   anxious   that  alone  you  wander 

now; 
For  you  are  slight  and  fragile  as  a  slender  willow  bough, 
And  in  yon  wood  the  grim  bear  prowleth  surely. 
The  rose  you  hold  as  token,  though,  will  keep  you  even 

there, 
'T  was  brought  you  by  an  angel  from  a  sacred  garden  fair: 
And  you  can  tread  on  snake  or  thorn  securely. 
Yea,  that  long  sunbeam  stretching  down  so  radiantly  bright 
O'er  Silja  Lake  from  glowing  towers  of  even  — 
In  truth  you  might  be  passing  on  your  bridal  way  to-night 
Along  that  narrow  trembling  bridge  to  heaven. 


236         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

DREAMS  AND  LIFE 

1  WOULD  that  I  were  a  mighty  man, 

Who  ruled  my  kingdom  and  had  men  dig 
Around  my  castle  a  moat  so  big 

No  long-legged  mischief  the  space  could  span. 
I  would  I  could  spread  a  noble  feast 
Where  each  hungry  fellow  should  be  my  guest, 

With  all  of  the  lads  who  were  bold  and  gay. 
And  there  it  should  always  be  said  outright 
That  black  was  black  and  that  white  was  white. 

And  life  should  be  praised  to  the  very  last  day. 

I  would  that  I  were  a  valiant  man. 

Give  me  a  steed  and  a  saddle,  O  Fate, 

A  warrior's  sword,  a  just  debate. 
And  a  foeman  to  conquer  if  I  can  ! 

And  if  I  'm  not  named  on  the  triumph  day, 

When  the  troops  come  back  from  the  finished  fray. 
Among  those  who  fell  where  the  fight  raged  hot  — 

'T  is  all  the  same,  if  I  fought  without  fear. 

A  man  may  advance  though  he  be  in  the  rear. 
And  slumber  full  soundly,  although  forgot. 

But  I  'm  not  a  man  in  these  dreams  remote. 

No  other  lances  than  words  I  wield. 

In  poesy's  tourney  I  bear  a  shield. 
But  the  rest  of  the  time  wear  an  everv-day  coat. 


ERIK  AXEL  KARLFELDT  237 

I  would  I  might  sing  on  the  sun-kissed  heights, 

Yet  I  dwell  at  home  with  the  lesser  lights, 
Where  Memory  sings  like  a  nightingale. 

The  neighbors  no  less  may  hear  me  rejoice; 

When  there  's  air  in  the  lungs  and  a  ring  in  the  voice, 
A  song  may  ascend  though  it  sound  from  the  dale. 


A  VAGRANT 

Who  are  you  and  whence  do  you  come?" 

I  will  not  and  cannot  reply, 
I  am  no  man's  son  and  I  have  no  home, 

No  son  shall  I  leave  when  I  die. 

A  stranger  from  far  am  I. 

"What's  your  religion,  what  is  your  creed?" 
I  only  know  this:  I  know  naught. 
And  if  I  have  missed  the  right  path,  indeed 
My  error  I  've  never  been  taught. 
But  God  first  and  last  I  have  sought. 

"How  is  your  life?"  It  is  storm  and  pain, 
A  hard,  endless  battle-drive; 
A  glow  that  is  quenched,  a  hope  made  vain, 
And  clouds  that  with  sunbeams  strive. 
But  still  I  am  glad  I  'm  alive. 


238  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

HYMN  TO  THE  HARVEST  MOON 

UTEP  out  from  your  curtain  of  silvered  shadow, 
Arise  from  your  couch  in  the  wood's  dim  haze. 

Oh,  shine  upon  new-mown  meadow 
And  orchard  with  tender  gaze. 

You  come  and  the  dew  exhales  to  meet  you. 

The  sap  floods  up  into  plant  and  tree, 
The  bosoms  of  women  entreat  you. 

Your  might 's  in  the  swelling  sea. 

You  rule  the  soul;  there  is  none  that  seeks  not 

To  follow  you  all  your  journey  long, 
Each  breast  that  loves  and  speaks  not 

Is  brimmed  with  a  flood  of  song. 

The  anxious  farmer  your  orb  is  watching, 
As  nightly  you  guard  o'er  his  ripening  grain; 

Your  red  means  a  storm  approaching. 
Your  paleness  foretelleth  rain. 

Now  a  herald-like  voice  at  the  midnight  hour 

Seems  to  cry:  "He  's  coming,  prepare  ye  his  feast!" 

He,  a  god  of  transcendent  power. 
And  I,  his  worshipping  priest. 

Methinks  in  ancestral  ages  I  'm  dwelling, 
When  in  days  of  the  legended  long  ago. 


ERIK  AXEL  KARLFELDT  239 

Men  prayed  to  the  awe-compelling 

Dream  powers  in  the  moon's  soft  glow. 

Each  grove  its  wild  incense  to  you  upraises, 
The  mist  of  their  sighs  the  fountains  bring; 

All  earth  unites  in  your  praises, 
O  fruit-crowned  Harvest  King! 


FROM  "FLOWER-SONGS" 
I 

As  lily-blooms  that  quiver 

When  mirrored  in  a  river, 

Thus  do  you  shine  to  me,  my  friend, 

as  forth  my  dark  waves  flow. 
And  though  the  autumn  chills  me, 
Yet  wondrously  it  stills  me 
To  think  of  how  in  lilies'  light  I  pass 

where'er  I  go. 

In  dark  waves  of  the  river 
No  more  the  lilies  quiver. 
The  waves  revisit  not  the  bank  whereon 

the  lilies  dwell. 
The  further,  though,  the  clearer 
Your  face  to  me,  and  dearer; 
I  go  as  dazed  with  lily-scent — I  hope, 

and  all  is  well. 


240         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 
MY  FOREFATHERS 

INTRODUCTORY  TO  "  SONGS  OF  NATURE  AND  LOVE 

On  history's  page  their  names  do  not  shine, 

For  humble  and  peaceful  were  they, 

And  yet  I  can  see  their  long,  long  line 

Stretching  back  through  the  ages  gray. 

Yes,  here  in  the  ancient  iron-rich  land 

They  tilled  their  fields  by  the  river-strand 

And  smelted  the  ore  in  their  day. 

Neither  thralldom  nor  pomp  could  they  understand, 

But,  dwelling  each  like  a  king  in  his  house. 

They  quaffed  at  their  festal  carouse. 

They  kissed  their  sweethearts  in  springtime's  pride. 

As  husbands  their  faith  they  revered. 

The  king  they  honored  and  God  they  feared, 

And  calmly  they  died,  satisfied. 

My  fathers! — in  grief,  in  temptation's  hour 

I  'm  strengthened  by  thoughts  of  you. 

As  you  could  cherish  your  lowly  dower, 

I  will  smile,  though  my  goods  be  few. 

When  Pleasure  beckoned  with  vine-wreathed  head, 

I  thought  of  your  fight  for  your  scanty  bread : 

Should  I  covet  more  than  my  due? 

You  revived  my  soul  like  a  river-bath 

When  I  wearied  of  battling  with  lust. 

And  taught  that  my  flesh  I  should  rather  distrust 

Than  the  world  and  the  Evil  One's  wrath. 


ERIK  AXEL  KARLFELDT  241 

I  see  you  in  dreams,  ye  sires  of  my  race, 

And  my  soul  becomes  faint  and  afraid ; 

Like  a  plant  I  've  been  torn  from  my  sprouting-place 

And  I  feel  that  your  cause  I  've  betrayed. 

I  '11  tell  now  of  summer  and  harvest-time 

With  a  merry  turn  in  the  play  of  the  rhyme; 

'Tis  the  task  of  a  poet  to  sing. 

And  should  any  poem  of  mine  recall 

The  surge  of  the  storm,  the  cataract's  fall. 

Some  thought  with  a  manly  ring, 

A  lark's  note,  the  glow  of  the  heath,  somehow, 

Or  the  sigh  of  the  woodland  vast, — 

You  sang  in  silence  through  ages  past 

That  song  by  your  cart  and  your  plough. 


DALECARLIAN  MARCH 
(a  troop  of  dalecarlians  return  home  from 

THEIR    summer's    LABOR) 

JVIarch  to  Tuna  Town,  lads! 
O'er  heath  and  hillside  brown,  lads, 
March  to  Mora,  lying 

Amid  the  mountains  blue. 
While  pick  and  spade  we  carrv. 
We  haste,  and  never  tarry. 
To  where  great  woods  are  sighing, 

And  little  sweethearts,  too. 


242         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

How  fine  it  is,  my  brothers, 
To  journey  with  the  others  j 
Our  pockets,  heavy-laden, 

Clink  time  with  merry  cheer. 
The  clarinet  is  trilling, 
The  fiddler,  not  unwilling. 
Bears  gifts  unto  his  maiden 

Whose  wedding-day  is  near. 

You  gloomy  old  curmudgeon. 
Don't  be  in  such  a  dudgeon ! 
Your  beer  will  sour  with  keeping; 

Pour  out  a  flagon  there! 
Dame,  let  your  sauce-pan  sputter 
With  porridge  and  with  butter; 
Here  's  Jonas  from  the  reaping, 

And  here  is  Singer  Peer! 

Ye  men  o'  the  miners'  region. 
Come  join  our  marching  legion. 
Ay,  join  in  our  procession 

To  Silja  Lake  to-day ! 
Come  and  behold  the  land  there. 
The  churches  on  the  strand  there 
Like  lilies  have  their  station 

In  shining  white  array. 

Behold  now  field  and  pasture 
Arrayed  in  golden  vesture! 


ERIK  AXEL  KARLFELDT  243 

The  brooks  and  streams  are  plashing 

With  festal  autumn  sound. 
Though  dark  the  clouds  above  now, 
We  hail  the  homes  we  love  now. 
For  us  will  lights  be  flashing, 

And  royal  mirth  abound. 


THE  MISJUDGED  FIDDLER 

JriE  came  in  from  the  damp, 
And  he  looked  like  any  tramp, 

For  his  trousers  and  his  coat  were  soaking  wet  —  oh  my! 
And  a  stream  ran  down  the  back 
Of  his  dark-brown  leather  sack 

When  he  laid  it  down  and  asked  for  a  place  where  he 
could  lie. 

From  the  corner  came  a  snarl: 
"A  common  beggar  carl 
Must  take  a  beggar's  lodging,  that  he  must  —  oh  my! 
Join  my  servant  in  the  shed 
And  you  '11  find  an  extra  bed, 

You  can  get  a  truss  of  straw  from  the  hay-loft  if  you 
try." 

The  stranger's  look  was  black, 
And  he  straightway  turned  his  back. 
When  he  took  his  bundle  up,  they  heard  a  plunk — oh 
my! 


244         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

But  the  farmer  shouted:  "Stop! 

Can  you  fiddle?  then  play  up! 

Scrape  well  and  it  will  earn  you  a  supper  by-and-by." 

With  the  first  good  fiddle-stroke 

There  were  drums,  and  shots,  and  smoke, 

There  were  ranks  of  blue  with  muskets  all  agleam  — 

oh  my ! 
And  the  farmer's  aspect  shone: 
"  Well,  if  that 's  your  worst,  go  on ! 
As  in  my  old  recruit-years  my  blood  runs  warm  and  spry ! " 

But  the  second  measure  sang 
As  if  sacred  bell-notes  rang 

A  soft  birch-scented  anthem  in  God's  house — oh  my! 
From  the  fire-place,  deeply  stirred. 
Then  the  good-wife's  voice  was  heard: 
"A  fiddler  such  as  that  shall  have  our  finest  bed,  say  I." 

And  when  next  his  bow  he  drew, 

It  was  forest  birds  that  flew. 

It  was  pair  on  pair  that  danced  with  lovers' joy — oh  my ! 

Then  up  the  daughter  sprung, 

On  the  stranger's  neck  she  clung. 

And  a  pretty  maiden's  kisses  gave  the  fiddler  his  reply. 

But  the  farmer  at  the  board 
Spoke  again  a  gentle  word: 
"Come,  take  a  glass;  I  love  a  pretty  tune — oh  my! 


ERIK  AXEL  KARLFELDT  245 

It 's  the  same  with  Mother  here." 
And  the  shy  girl  said :  "  I  fear, 

Kind  stranger,  when  you  're  gone  I  can't  do  anything  but 
cry." 

He  smiled  upon  the  lass 
And  he  took  the  brimming  glass: 
"I'm  not  the  shabby  fellow  that  you  thought  —  oh  nay! 
I  'm  a  right  good  organist, 
And  my  name  is  Apelqvist, 

And  I  '11  be  your  promised   lover,  pretty  maiden,  if  I 
may." 


246         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Per  Hallstrbm,  1866- 

INSPIRATION 

rdoT  with  sorrow  or  with  joy, 

Poet,  be  thy  singing; 
Free  as  from  the  eye's  deep  well 

Sudden  tears  come  springing. 

Hot  with  sorrow  or  with  joy  — 
Joy  comes  rarely,  poet. 

In  so  pure  a  form  that  we 
In  our  song  may  show  it. 

Sorrow's  hand  avails  thee  more. 
Which  in  darkest  hour 

Wakes  thy  heart-strings  into  song. 
Plucking  there  with  power. 

Sorrow's  hand  avails  thee  more. 

Sight  is  blurred  by  laughter. 
Sorrow  weeps,  and  in  her  clasp 

Holds  the  world  thereafter. 

All  the  depths  of  her  own  heart 
Sorrow  hath  inspected. 

She  in  others'  eyes  may  now 
See  herself  reflected. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS         247 

Bo  Bergma?i,  1869- 

ADAGIO 

Waves  are  stirring,  winds  are  playing, 

Peaceful  is  their  interflow. 

Rye,  through  parted  boughs  half-hinted, 

Ripples  golden-tinted 

To  and  fro. 

Thou  alone  art  elsewhere  straying. 

Softlier  the  pulses  leap. 

Far-ofF  music,  faintly  playing, 

Stills  me  nigh  to  sleep. 

Clouds  go  past  like  lovely  shining 

Swans  across  the  sea  of  sky. 

Floating  soundlessly  and  lonely; 

Swans  break  silence  only 

When  they  die. 

Through  the  day  with  dull  repining 

I  have  labored  wearily. 

I  would  join  the  lovely  shining 

Swans  and  float  to  thee. 


248         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Hjalmar  Sdderberg,  1869- 
STIFLED  MUSIC 

BUNDNA   TONER 

1  HE  fairest  that  we  would  offer, 
The  deepest  we  would  express, 
We  never  in  sounds  may  proffer, 
May  never  in  words  confess. 

Too  fleeting  is  this  for  any 

To  capture  in  books  or  strings. 

Too  high  to  attract  the  many. 
This  treasure  of  nameless  things. 

But  deep  in  our  soul  't  is  burning, 

It  dwells  there  our  whole  life  long 
With  dumb  and  impotent  yearning 
To  be  a  poem,  a  song. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS         249 

Sten  Granlund^  1871- 
SNOW  AT  CHRISTMAS 

JULSNO  OVER   BYGDEN 

White  are  the  heavens.  This  Yuletide  morning, 

White  snow  falls,  oh,  how  prettily ! 
Swansdown  and  crystal  it  weaves,  adorning 

Tenderly  land  and  sea. 

Gently  it  covers  the  foul,  the  sickly. 

Wrapping  soft  folds  over  mountain  and  dale. 

Motherly  fingers  conceal  them  quickly 
Under  a  shining  veil. 

Snow  of  Yule  on  my  home-land  sprinkling. 

Beautiful,  white, — I  welcome  thee. 
Childhood  Yule-days  with  great  halls  twinkling 

Thou  dost  reveal  to  me. 

Now  yet  again  as  a  boy  I  'm  gazing 

Out,  with  my  face  to  the  pane  held  tight, 

Over  the  pines  I  watch  the  mazing 
Whirl  of  the  snowflakes'  flight. 

Boy  cheeks  are  flaming  with  joy  ecstatic, 

Yule  traditions  take  life  anew, 
Home  is  once  more  from  base  to  attic 

Garnished  and  festive  too. 


2  50         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Are  there  not  steps  that  tap  in  the  hall  now? 

Is  not  the  brownie  pattering  near? 
Is  not  the  tree  lit?  Has  not  the  ball  now 

Started  its  joyous  career? 

Quietly,  swiftly  the  Yule-night  passes. 

Sleighs  at  the  steps  await  us  in  line. 
Heaven  is  on  fire  with  sparkling  masses, 

Brightly  the  torches  shine. 

OfF  then  to  church  mid  the  sleigh-bells'  glory! 

Myriad  candles!  organ-notes  long! 
Life  is  as  fair  and  rich  as  a  story 

Woven  of  starlight  and  song. 

Snow  of  Yule  on  my  home-land  resting, 
Long  have  I  roamed  the  road  of  the  years. 

Now  in  the  halls  of  my  youth  I  'm  guesting — 
Wet  is  my  cheek  with  tears. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS  251 

Karl  Erik  Forsslund,  1872- 

HAY-MAKING 

1  HOUGH  Still  the  blue  forget-me-nots 

From  flower-beds  are  peeping, 
And  in  the  near-by  meadow-plots 
The  grass  its  hue  is  keeping. 
Yet  scythes  are  swung 
And  rakes  are  flung 
With  motion  brisk  and  sweeping. 

The  flowers  fall  and  lie  in  death. 

Sweet  odors  o'er  them  hover, 
The  scent  of  grasses  and  the  breath 
Of  strawberry  and  clover. 
And  scythes  are  swung 
And  rakes  are  flung. 
And  soon  is  summer  over. 

Behold  the  men  in  shirts  of  red, 

The  girls'  bright  linen  gleaming! 
Like  glowing  coals  the  light  they  shed. 
Most  gay  to  youthful  seeming. 
But  scythes  are  swung 
And  rakes  are  flung, 
And  flowers  are  but  as  dreaming. 


2  52         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Two  scarlet  poppies  now  I  take 

From  where  my  blade  was  plying. 
Let  one,  my  partner  of  the  rake, 
Fade,  on  your  bosom  lying. 
For  scythes  are  swung 
And  rakes  are  flung, 
We  too  shall  soon  be  dying. 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS         253 

Oscar  St/erne^  1873- 

SPRING-GRASS 

UPRING-GRASS  is  like  youth,  it 

Must  forth,  it  must  out. 

'T  is  warmth  in  the  blood,  it 

Is  courage  a-flood,  it 

Is  strength  for  achievement, 

A  faith  above  fact  and 

A  hope  above  doubt. 

Spring-grass  is  like  youth,  it 

Must  forth,  it  must  out. 

Spring-grass  is  like  youth,  it 
Must  out,  it  must  forth  — 
*Twill  pass  every  barrier 
And  break  through  the  earth. 
'T  is  the  promise  of  morrovv^. 
And  healing  for  sorrow; 
'T  is  pain  too  that  rages 
Mid  men  south  and  north. 
And  burns  out  the  ages 
Of  misery,  madness 
And  crime  and  unworth. 
Spring-grass  is  like  youth,  it 
Must  out,  it  must  forth. 


2  54         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Spring-grass  is  like  youth,  it 
Will  rule  before  long — 
•    'T  will  rise,  it  will  flame  in 
Achievement  and  song. 
'T  will  flourish,  upspringing, 
Till  wreath-like  outflinging 
Its  arms,  the  whole  world  it 
Embowers, 

Wind-swayed  and  murmuring 
With  seed  and  flowers. 


THE  LITTLE  ONE  SMILES 

While  we  are  still  drowsing 
In  stillness  complete. 

My  wee  one  is  rousing: 
Good  morning,  my  sweet ! 

She  rustles  and  flutters 
In  white  little  bed  — 

A  twittering  she  utters 
Like  birds  overhead. 

As  yet  she  's  but  making 
The  soft  chirping  sound 

Which  stirs  in  the  waking 
Green  valleys  around. 


OSCAR  STJERNE  255 

Her  wee  lips  endeavor 

A  song  without  word, 
The  prettiest  ever 

That  dadda  has  heard. 

Her  cheek  from  the  cover 

She  boldly  uprears, 
Her  chubby  chin  over 

The  blanket  appears. 

A  sunbeam  now  plays  on 

The  window,  and  glows. 
Then  kisses  and  strays  on 

The  vase  with  its  rose. 

All  rapt  she  is  gazing 

With  eyes  round  and  blue — 
To  her  'tis  amazing 

And  wondrously  new. 

The  light  so  beguiles  and 

Attracts  her  and  charms. 
She  sunnily  smiles  and 

Puts  up  her  small  arms. 

She  dimples,  our  baby. 

For  sunbeam  and  rose  — 
She's  seeing  more,  maybe, 

Than  we  can  suppose. 


256         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

As  day  comes,  adorning 
The  sky  with  its  hue, 

She  smiles  on  the  morning. 
On  life  she  smiles  too. 

Ah,  when  the  snow  flies,  dear, 
When  Autumn  blows  chill. 

May  ever  thine  eyes,  dear. 
See  wonder  there  still ! 

To  thee  be  it  given, 
Whate'er  be  thy  dole, 

To  smile  up  at  heaven. 
Thou  wakening  soul! 


ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS         257 

K.  G.  Ossian-JSTilsson,  1875- 

A  MARCH  FOR  YOUTH 

On  with  the  hosts  that  toil,  and  on  with  the  young  and 

strong 
Under  our  banner  of  red,   if  your  heart   will  bear  you 

along. 
Would  you  feel  you  are  young,  and  would  you  fight  to  be 

free. 
These  are  the  ranks  of  freedom,  and  young,  ever  young, 

are  we. 
While  with  song  we  march  on  and  while  we  rush  to  the 

strife. 
Eager  our  eyes  behold  the  dawn  of  a  fairer  life. 
We  go  forth  like  the  Spring,  which  nothing  can  stop  or 

stay. 
We  have  sunlight  and  song,  and  faith  in  the  triumph-day. 

We  go  on  to  the  fray,  onward  for  freedom  and  right. 
What  is  too  much  for  one,  for  many  shoulders  is  light; 
Though  the  fortress  of  Wrong  stands  like  a  rock  on  its 

base. 
We  set  levers  beneath  and  cast  it  down  from  its  place. 
Down  it  shall  in  the  dust,  the  gray-walled  Castle  of  Guilt, 
Over  it  ploughs  shall  pass  and  poor  men's  homes  be  built; 
Down  it  must  in  the  fight,  and  when  the  battle  is  o'er. 
Then  will  freedom  be  ours,  and  Sweden    be   free    once 

more. 


2  58         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

We  go  forth  to  redeem  our  folk  and  our  fathers'  land, 
Loosing  Oppression's  chain  that  binds  them  with  many 

a  band, 
Kindling  for  them  a  torch,  that  Truth  may  be  clear  to  view. 
Seeking  to  shield  their  life  from  tyrant  and  savage  too. 
This  land  here  is  our  own,  where  idly  other  men  sprawl, 
This  is  the  land  we  cleared,  we  settled  and  ploughed  it  all. 
On  to  strive  for  our  rights!  As  sure  as  we're  Swedish  men, 
If  they  have  filched  our  land,  we  '11  conquer  it  back  again. 


BISMARCK 

rT.E  stands  there  in  his  glory 

Exalted  to  the  view, 
A  hero  in  a  story, — 

The  story,  though,  was  true  — 
A  man  obeyed  and  idolized 

And  hated,  yet  we  can 
But  say:  from  spur  to  helmet 
A  man. 

Moustaches  grimly  curling 

He  stands  there  stern  of  mood, 

His  fierce  lips  might  be  hurling 
Forth  "  iron  "  now  or  "  blood." 

The  frown  that  gathers  on  his  brow 
Shows  well  what  he  is  like, 

The  fist  is  clenched  and  ready 
To  strike. 


K.  G.  OSSIAN-NILSSON 

'T  was  whispered  in  a  fable 
That  holds  perhaps  a  grain 

Of  truth,  that  France  was  Abel 
And  he  to  France  was  Cain. 

And  all  mankind  lamented  for 
Their  darling  son  that  fell, 

And  heaven  still  re-echoes 
His  knell. 

When  rolled  the  drums  of  battle 

In  valleys  by  Sedan, 
And  clifFs  returned  the  rattle 

Of  "  rataplan-aplan," 
Parisian,  Gascon,  Zouave  then. 

And  Algerine  so  brown 
Fell  as  if  scythes  were  mowing 
Them  down. 

'T  is  said  that,  as  they  rode  there 

Caftan  by  coat  of  red 
And,  smitten  down,  were  strowed  there 

Beneath  the  hail  of  lead, 
The  Prussian  king  himself  shed  tears, 
He  could  not  watch  them  so, 
"Mercy!"  he  cried,  but  Bismarck 
Said,  "No!" 

Of  those  that  charged  so  boldly 
No  squadron  fled  or  broke. 


259 


26o         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRJCS 

But  lonely  hearths  burned  coldly 
In  France  for  that  one  stroke. 

Then  languished  a  Napoleon 
Within  a  Prussian  cage, 

Then  fell  the  lofty  hopes  of 
An  age. 

Ay,  this  was  not  a  fable, 
The  truth  to  all  is  plain 

That  France  indeed  was  Abel 
And  he  to  France  was  Cain. 

But  Cain  went  not  apart  to  shun 
God's  wrathful  countenance, 

He  roughly  raised  to  heaven 
His  glance. 

He  said  with  harsh  defiance: 
"In  blood  my  meaning's  writ, — 
The  German  States'  alliance 

You  French  would  fain  have  split. 
See  crushed  before  Arminius 

Low  lies  a  Roman  troop!  — 
Our  pedestal  is  founded 
By  Krupp." 

He  stands  there  in  his  glory 

With  sword  prepared  for  strife. 

This  ruthless  man  of  story 
In  days  of  gentler  life; 


K.  G.  OSSIAN-NILSSON  261 

A  man  obeyed  and  idolized 

And  hated,  yet  we  can 
But  say:  from  spur  to  helmet 
A  man. 

Despite  all  Christian  preaching 

Of  virtues  more  sublime,  ' 

Despite  the  kindlier  teaching 
Of  this  our  kindlier  time, 

The  ancient  race  of  giants  lasts 
Down  to  the  present  date, 

Is  honored  still  with  statues 
And  hate. 


262  ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Bertel  Gripenberg,  1878- 

DRINK 

JVLy  heart  is  rich  as  a  brimming  cup 

Of  gold  and  of  rubies  fine, 
My  heart  is  rich  as  a  brimming  cup 

With  fiery  sparkling  wine. 

The  wine  it  foams  with  a  lustrous  glow, 
It  shimmers  with  purple  gleam; 

The  warm  drops  heave  till  they  overflow, 
And  down  o'er  the  edge  they  stream. 

For  thee  the  luxuriant  clusters  bled, 

For  thee  is  the  goblet  filled, 
For  thy  sake  the  wine  so  sweet,  so  red. 

In  the  gold-shining  cup  is  spilled. 

So  lift  the  cup  in  thy  hand  so  white 
And  drain  it  with  eager  smart! 

Drink,  drink  of  my  seething  youth's  delight. 
The  foaming  must  of  my  heart! 

YOUTH 

Our  time  is  a  strife-time,  a  battle-time, 
A  riddle  that 's  ever  burning, 

A  sowing-time  of  the  springtide's  prime 
When  sap  in  the  veins  is  yearning. 


BERTEL  GRIPENBERG  263 

Our  day  is  youth's  glad  victory-day 

Which  brightens  the  air  with  wonder. 
Our  strength  is  the  flash  of  the  Hghtning's  play 

And  savage  billows  that  thunder. 

We  smite  the  world  with  the  bolts  we  ply, 

It  shakes  them  from  peak  to  hollow. 
Soon  quenched  are  the  bolts,  yet  they  charm  the  eye, 

They  kindle,  and  flame  will  follow. 

AT  THE  END  OF  PLAY 

Your  glance  is  dark  and  your  cheek  is  pale, 

I  see  that  you  comprehend. 
No  longer  do  sport  and  jest  prevail. 

Let  earnest  come  at  the  end ! 

You  kindled  in  play  a  spark  of  desire. 
Which  grows  ever  more  and  more. 

Till  now  it  burns  us,  that  ruthless  fire 
That  burned  so  many  before. 

You  cannot  quench  it,  you  cannot  flee 
That  glow  which  bursts  into  flame, 

Its  hot  cloud  enwraps  us  fearsomely  — 
Then  bide  the  chance  of  the  game! 

Let  the  blaze  leap  up  as  high  as  it  will. 

Let  the  flames  to  heaven  uproll, 
And  oh,  give  thanks  unto  fate  that  still 

Such  fire  is  in  your  soul! 


264         ANTHOLOGY  OF  SWEDISH  LYRICS 

Anders  Osterling,  1884- 

MEETING  OF  PHANTOMS 

1  IN  a  vision 
Saw  my  lost  sweetheart. 
Fearlessly  toward  me 
I  saw  her  stray. 
So  pale!  I  thought  then; 
She  smiled  her  answer: 
"My  heart,  my  spirit 
I  've  kissed  away. 

"I  to  the  breezes 
Gave  my  life  gladly, 
Soon  it  was  vanished, 
Gone  with  a  breath. 
If  I  have  grieved  you, 
Pardon  the  sorrow; 
We  are  but  phantoms. 
Like  now  in  death." 

My  voice  I  heard  then: 
*'That  is  forgiven. 
If  unremembrance 
Can  pardon  aught. 
Give  me  again  but 
My  heart,  tny  spirit, — 


ANDERS  OSTERLING  265 

You  alone  found  them 
Of  all  that  sought." 

Then  I  came  nearer: 
"Give  me  them  quickly! 

My  road  is  long,  love, 

I  cannot  stay." 

She  never  heard  me, 

She  in  the  night  sang: 
"All  heart,  all  spirit 

I  've  kissed  away." 

I  looked  aside  then, 
By  memory  tortured, 
Shrank  back  in  terror 
Toward  daylight's  door. 
I  felt  upon  me 
Those  dark  eyes  resting, 
Eyes  that  too  well  knew 
My  heart  before. 

Like  wand'ring  phantoms 
Meseemed  we  both  were  — 
A  sigh,  a  whisper, 
And  fled  was  she. 
No  more  could  either 
Help  now  the  other. 
We  saw  but,  grieving, 
That  it  was  we. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

N.B.  In  the  Swedish  alphabet  the  letters  a,  a,  undo  come  after  z  in  that 
order. 

Almqvist,  Karl  Jonas  Love,  i  793-1 866.  One  of  the  most  brilliant 
writers  of  his  time,  especially  in  prose  fiction.  In  the  lyric  he  was  a  fol- 
lower of  the  Phosphorists.  One  of  the  few  lyrists  whose  freedom  of  form 
approached  njers  litre.  A  pastor  by  profession. 

Atterbom,  Per  Daniel  Amadeus,  i  790-1 855.  Leader  of  the  Phos- 
phorists. A  pure  and  graceful  lyrist  of  the  idealistic  type.  A  profes^or, 
first  of  philosophy,  then  of  esthetics  and  literature. 

Bellman,  Karl  Mxkael,  i  740-1 795.  The  greatest  Swedish  poet  of 
his  century,  if  not  of  the  entire  literature.  Composed  his  best  work  im- 
promptu to  music.  Equally  noted  for  vivid  objectivity  and  for  his  daz- 
zling mastery  of  complex  stanza-form.  Unsuccessful  in  business,  he  was 
given  a  sinecure  position  by  Gustavus  IIL 

Bergman,  Bo,  1869-  .A  light  and  delicate  lyrist.  Also  a  literary  critic 
and  writer  of  prose  fiction. 

Baath,  Albert  Ulrik,  1853-1912.  Went  in  lyric  poetry  side  by  side 
with  Strindberg  in  the  novel,  toward  ultra-realism.  Despised  "parlor 
poetry"  and  wrote  of  and  for  the  lower  classes.  Was  also  a  narrative 
poet  and  a  student  of  antiquities.  By  profession  a  museum  curator. 

BXcKSTROM,  Edvard,  1841-1S86.  Dramatist  and  elegiac  poet. 

Dahlgren,  Fredrik  August,  1816-1S95.  Best  known  forhishumor- 
ous  lyrics  in  the  Vermland  dialect.  An  under-secretary  in  the  govern- 
ment departments. 

Fallstrom,  Daniel,  i  S5S-  .  Aprolificauthor,  especially  in  thcficld 
of  the  love  lyric  and  nature  description.  Follows  the  type  of  Snoilsky. 

FoRSSLUND,  Karl  Erik,  1872-  .  A  nature  poet  of  socialistic  lean- 
ings and  a  spirited  prose  stylist.  A  school-teacher. 

FranzIn,  Frans  Mikael,  i  772-1 847.  An  idyllic,  lyric,  and  religious 
poet,  equally  famous  for  serious  and  convivial  verse.  Born  in  Finland, 


268  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

where  he  became  a  professor,  he  left  his  country  after  the  conquest 
by  Russia,  entered  the  Swedish  Church,  and  was  made  a  bishop  in 
1834. 

Froding,  Gustaf,  1860-1911.  The  most  powerful  and  masterly  of 
recent  Swedish  poets.  An  objective  realist  of  peasant  life,  also  notable 
in  autobiographical  and  imaginative  lyrics,  with  alternate  humor  And 
tragic  irony.  Had  university  training  and  worked  for  a  time  on  a  news- 
paper. Lived  a  bohemlan  life  and  broke  down  from  dissipation  in  1 898, 
after  which  time  he  never  regained  his  former  artistic  power. 

Geijer,  Erik  Gustaf,  178 3-1 847.  The  first  poet  to  awaken  inter- 
est inSweden'slegendary  past.  He  and  Tegner  were  the  chief  figures  of 
the  so-called  Gothic  Society.  Patriotic  and  at  times  realistic.  A  noted 
Swedish  historian  and  professor  of  history. 

Gellerstedt,  Albert  Teodor,  1836-19 14.  The  most  compact 
and  epigrammatic  of  Swedish  lyrists.  A  commissioner  in  the  govern- 
ment. 

Granlund,  Sten,  1 87 1-  .  Nature  poet,  translator,  and  newspaper 
editor. 

Gripenberg,  Bertel,  1S78-  .  A  Finn,  author  of  several  very 
spirited  and  colorful  lyric  volumes.  Esthetic  and  modernistic  In  tend- 
ency. Translated  Oscar  Wilde's  Ballad  of  Reading  Gaol.  A  viscount. 
By  profession  a  private  teacher. 

Hallstrom,  Per,  1866-  .  Most  famous  for  prose  stories,  essays, 
and  his  comedy  Erotikon.  Lived  for  a  time  in  America.  Influenced  by 
English  and  French  literature.  Chiefly  idealistic  in  his  lyric  verse. 

Hansson,  Ola,  i860-     .  A  critic  and  nature  poet  of  great  sympathy. 

Heidenstam,  Verner  von,  1859-  .  Highly  cultivated  by  study  and 
travel.  The  leading  living  poet  of  Sweden,  winner  of  the  Nobel  Prize 
for  Literature  in  1 916.  An  imaginative  realist  of  great  power  and  depth. 
Expresses  the  new  aspiration  toward  nationality  in  his  historical  studies, 
prose  fiction,  and  lyrics.  At  first  a  painter. 

Josephson,  Ernst,  i 851— 1906.  Of  Jewish  family,  chiefly  famous  for 
his  genius  as  a  painter.  Went  insane  in  18S7. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  269 

Karlfeldt,  Erik  Axel,  1864-  .The  most  widely  popular  living 
poet  in  the  field  of  nature  and  peasant  life.  Characterized  by  simple 
feeling  and  genial  humor.  A  librarian,  and  secretary  of  the  Swedish 
Academy. 

Kellgren,  Johan  Henrik,  1751-1795.  The  leading  satirist  of  the 
Gustavian  Period,  and  secretary  to  the  king. 

Lenngren,  Anna  Maria  (born  Malmstedt),  i  755-1 81 7.  The  best- 
known  of  women  poets  in  Swedish.  Cultivated  the  pastoral,  social  sat- 
ire, and  didactic  poetry. 

Leopold,  Karl  Gustaf  af,  1756-1 829.  Similar  to  Kellgren.  A  gov- 
ernment secretary,  whose  poetry  was  satiric  and  didactic. 

Levertin,  Oscar,  1S62-1906.  Of  Jewish  extraction.  Literary  critic 
and  novelist.  Shows  a  melancholy  and  mystical  spirit  in  his  lyrics, 
together  with  great  delicacy  of  form. 

LiDNER,  Bengt,  1 757-1 793.  A  brilliant  emotional  poet,  though  at 
times  rather  strained  in  style.  Had  a  brief  and  unhappy  career. 

Malmstrom,  Bernhard  Elis,  18 16-1865.  Professor  of  history  at 
Upsala.  An  imaginative  and  tender  lyrist. 

Oscar  II,  1 829-1 907.  Poet  as  well  as  patron  of  the  arts.  He  celebrated 
chiefly  the  naval  glory  of  Sweden. 

Ossian-Nilsson,  K.  G.,  1875-  .  The  chief  representative  of  the  So- 
cialists in  Swedish  poetry.  Also  a  prose  writer  and  dramatist. 

Runeberg,  Johan  Ludvig,  i 804-1 877.  With  Tegner  the  most  pop- 
ular of  epic  poets  in  Swedish.  In  the  lyric  he  wrote  hymns,  idyllic  poems, 
and  ballads.  Of  Finnish  birth,  he  is  chiefly  famous  for  his  narrative 
lyrics  on  events  in  the  war  with  Russia.  At  first  a  newspaper  writer, 
then  a  teacher,  poet,  and  dramatist. 

Rydberg,  Viktor,  1828-1895.  The  greatest  academic  poet  and  nov- 
elist Sweden  has  produced.  Wrote  historical  novels  and  liberal-minded 
studies  of  religion.  Translated  Goethe's  Faust  and  several  of  Poe's 
lyrics.  His  original  lyrics  are  mainly  noble  and  classic  in  sentiment, 
but  include  also  very  charming  realistic  poems.  Earnest  and  optimistic 


270  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

in  tone.  First  a  journalist,  then  :i  scliolar  by  j)rofession,  lie  umiertook 
studies  in  many  fields. 

Sehlstedt,  Elias,  1 808-1 874.  A  pleasant  and  whimsical  nature  poet. 

Snoilsky,  Carl,  1  841-1903.  A  nobleman  of  Polish  descent.  Intro- 
duced vivid  personal  expression  into  the  poetry  of  his  time.  Beginning 
as  an  epicurean,  especially  a  lover  of  Italy,  he  changed  to  realistic  and 
national  themes.  A  diplomatist  and  chief  librarian. 

Stagnelius,  Erik  Johan,  i 793-1 823.  A  philosophic  idealist  some- 
what akin  to  Shelley. 

Stjerne,  Oscar,  1873-  .  A  poet  of  nature  and  of  child  life  who  is 
rising  rapidly  in  popularity. 

Strandberg,  Karl  Vilhelm  August,  18 18-1877.  Pen-name  Talis 
Qvalis.  A  vigorous  romantic  and  patriotic  poet. 

Strindberg,  August,  1849-19 12.  An  extremely  marked  and  many- 
sided  genius.  Founder  of  the  modern  realistic  school  in  Sweden.  Scien- 
tist, essayist,  novelist,  and  above  all  dramatist.  Violent,  often  unbal- 
anced; again,  with  an  exquisite  sense  of  form  and  beauty.  His  small 
volume  of  lyrics  is  characteristically  diverse  as  to  subject,  running  from 
nature  to  revolutionary  topics.  His  life  is  too  complex  in  its  interest  to 
be  epitomized. 

Soderberg,  Hjalmar,  1869-  .  Novelist,  dramatist,  and  critic.  Very 
advanced  in  his  views.  Partly  a  realist,  partly  an  esthete. 

Tavaststjerna,  Karl  August,  i  860-1 899.  A  Finn.  His  lyrics  have 
a  deep  and  melancholy  grace.  An  architect  by  profession. 

TegneRjEsaias,  1 782-1 846.  The  most  widely  known  of  Swedish  poets 
outside  of  Sweden.  Author  of  Frithiof's  Saga,  the  most  popular  of 
Swedish  epics.  Chiefly  interested  in  the  legendary  past  of  his  country, 
but  very  diverse  in  his  lyric  themes.  By  turns  witty,  idealistic,  and 
romantic.  A  professor,  finally  a  bishop. 

TiGERSCHiOLD,  HuGO,  i860-  .  One  of  the  more  conservative  living 
poets.  Winner  of  the  chief  Academy  prize  for  one  of  his  volumes. 

TopELius,  Zakarias,  1818-1898.  A  Finn.  The  most  winsome  and 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES  271 

lovable  of  poets  writing  in  Swedish.  Simple  and  popular  in  appeal, 
with  a  religious  tendency.  A  professor  at  Helsingfors. 

Wall  IN,  Johan  Olof,  i  779-1 8  39.  A  pastor,  noted  for  religious  poetry. 
His  "The  Angel  of  Death  "  is  one  of  the  best  known  poems  in  the  lan- 
guage. 

Wennerberg,  Gunnar,  1 817-190 1.  A  humorous  and  patriotic  poet. 
Had  a  prominent  political  career. 

WiRSEN,  Carl  David  af,  1842-19 12.  A  reactionary  against  the 
modern  realistic  impulse  headed  in  poetry  by  Snoilsky.  Meditative 
and  fanciful. 

Osterling,  Anders,  1884-  .  An  esthete  of  the  more  delicate  and 
mystical  type.  By  occupation  a  librarian. 


GENERAL  NOTES 

PRONUNCIATION 

J-'ONGFELLow  justly  describes  the  Swedish  language  as  being* 'soft 
and  musical,  with  an  accent  like  the  lowland  Scotch."  The  follow- 
ing incomplete  table  is  designed  to  aid  the  general  reader  in  pro- 
nouncing proper  names. 

a,  e,  and  i  are  pronounced  as  in  Latin  or  German : 
a  like  a  in  father. 
e  like  a  in  fame. 
/■  like  ee  in  seen. 
0  is  like  oo  in  bloom. 

a  is  a  sound  unknown  in  regular  English,  but  like  ui  in  Scotch 
dialefl :  e.g.,  guid.  It  is  formed  like  oo  with  the  lips  more  pursed. 
It  is  just  between  Swedish  o  and  y. 
y  is  like  French  u,  German  ii. 
h  is  like  0  in  hope. 

a  and  0  are  like  similar  letters  in  German: 
«  the  same  as  Swedish  e. 
0  like  French  eu  in  fleur. 
All  of  these  vowels  may  be  either  long  or  short. 

The  chief  diiFerences  of  the  consonants  from  English  are  : 
g  before  e,  i,  y,  d,  and  o  is  like  our  consonantal  y ;  e.g.,  Gei- 
jer  =  Yeiyer. 
j  is  always  like  our  consonantal  y. 

k  before  e,  i, y,  d,  o,  is  like  our  ch;  e.g.,  Kellgren  =  Chailgrain. 
stj  is  like  our  sh;  e.g.,  Stjerne  =  Shairnay. 
V  and  tv  are  alike,  both  corresponding  to  our  v. 

The  secondary  accent  and  the  other  peculiarities  of  Swedish  are 
too  difficult  to  be  treated  here. 


274  GENERAL  NOTES 

TEXTUAL   NOTES 

Askur  and  Embla.  The  Adam  and  Eve  of  Old  Norse  mythology. 

Page  38. 

Mi/ner.  The  giant  who  guarded  the  spring  of  wisdom. 

Page  59. 

Sandels.  One  of  the  leading  generals  of  the  Finnish  army  in  the  war 

with  Russia,  1808-9. 

Page  79. 

Lappa.  A  battle  in  which  the  Finns  defeated  the  invading  Russians, 

July  14,  1808.  Uttismalm.  Also  in  Finland.  Here  Gustaf  III  defeated 

the  Russians  in  1789.  Willmanstrand.  Near  Uttismalm  in  southeastern 

Finland.  Here  the  Finns  and  Swedes  were  beaten  by  the  Russians  in 

1741. 

Page  88. 

S'veaborg.  A  supposedly  impregnable  fortress  on  the  Gulf  of  Finland 
which  surrendered  to  the  Russians.  S'vithiod^s  strand.  A  patriotic  syno- 
nym for  Sweden. 

Page  131. 

Magenta  and  Caprera.  Where  viftories  were  won  in  the  Italian  war 
of  independence.  The  latter  was  won  by  Garibaldi,  to  whom  possibly 
Snoilsky  refers  on  page  132,  stanza  5,  as  "my  lion." 

Page  145. 

King  Erik.  Erik  XIV,  son  of  Gustaf  Vasa,  was  the  most  romantic  of 
Swedish  kings.  He  was  a  poet,  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  Mary  Queen 
of  Scots,  and  a  passionate  devotee  of  the  sex  in  general.  The  happiest 
of  his  many  love  affairs  was  that  with  Karin,  a  peasant  girl.  In  the  end 
Erik  was  dethroned  and  murdered  in  prison,  1577. 

Page  188. 

The  Old  Mountain  Troll.  The  Norse  troll  is  properly  a  loathsome  and 

carnivorous  giant  living  in  the  mountains. 


GENERAL  NOTES  275 

Page  1 94. 

The  Dunce  by  the  Roadside.  Swedish  names  have  been  Anglicized,  as 

frequently  elsewhere,  for  the  sake  of  dire(51ness. 

Page  201. 

This  Dreamer  comethl  The  dreamer  is  of  course  Joseph.  Cf.  Genesis 

37:19. 

Page  202. 

Karl-Johan.  This  is  Bemadotte,  Napoleon's  marshal,  afterwards  chosen 

by  the  Swedes  as  their  king  under  the  title  of  Charles  XIV. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Adagio.  Bergman,  2+7. 

Alone  by  the  Lake.  Heidenstam, 
176. 
"Angel  of  Death  (The),"  From. 
IVailin,  33. 

Aphrodite   and   the  Knlfe- 
Grinder.  Snoilsky,  133. 

Art  of  Succeeding,  The.  Kell- 
gren,  1 8. 

Artist,  The.  Le'vert'm,  220. 

At  the  End  of  Play.  Gripenberg, 
263. 

At  the  End  of  the  Way.  Hei- 
denstam, 173. 

Bathing  Children,  The.  Rjd- 
berg,  102. 

Beatrice.  Levertin,  21S. 
"Behold,    this    Dreamer     Com- 
eth ! "  Eroding,  201. 

Benvenuto  Cellini.  ^«o//i^',  144. 

Beside  a  Spring.  Runeberg,  76. 

Birds  of  Passage.  Tegner,  35. 

Birds   on   a    Telegraph   Wire. 
Snoilsky,  143. 

Bismarck.  Ossian-Nilsson,  258. 

Black  Swans.  Snoilsky,  142. 

Books  and  Love.  H'lrsen,  149. 

Boy  and  his  Playthings,  The. 
Lenngren,  21. 

Burial  of  Gustaf  Eroding,  The. 
Heidenstam,  171, 

Cantata.  Rydberg,  122.    [22. 
Castle  and  Cottage.  Lenngren, 
Cello,  The.  Josep/ison,  154. 
Champagne.  Franzen,  32. 


Charcoal-Burner's    Son,   The. 

Geijer,  47. 
Chorus  of  the  Winds,  Atterbom, 

52.  _ 
City  Lieutenant,  The.  Eroding, 

183. 
Concerning  Mollberg's  Parade 

to  Corporal  Boman's  Grave. 

Bellman,  4. 

Dalecarlian  March.  Karl- 
feldt,  241. 

Dance  by  the  Roadside,  The. 
Eroding,  194. 

Day,  A.  Heidenstam,  168. 

Dove  of  Thought,  The.  Heiden- 
stam, 164. 

Dreams  and  Life.  Karlfeldt,  236. 

Dreams  in  Hades.  Eroding,  204. 

Drink.  Gripenberg,  262. 

Kdelweiss.  Snoilsky,  137. 
Esplanade  Method, The.  Strind- 

berg,  152. 
Eternal,  The.  Tegner,  39. 

r  AREWELL  to  my  Lyre.  Tegner, 

44. 
Felicia's  Song.  Atterbom,  51. 
Fellow-Citizens.      Heidenstam, 
161. 
"Flower-Songs,"    From.    Karl- 
feldt, 239. 
Foreground  and   Background. 
Gellerstedt,  127. 
"Forest     of     Tivedan     (The)," 
From.  Heidenstam,  170. 


278 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


From  "Flower-Songs."  Karl- 
feldt,  239. 

From  "Idylls  and  Epigrams." 
Rujieberg,  71. 

From  "  Songs  of  Home."  Hans- 
son,  215. 

From  "The  Angel  of  Death." 
Wall'in,  33. 

From  "The  Forest  of  Tiveden." 
Hcidenstanij  i  70. 

From  "Thoughts  in  Loneli- 
ness." Heidenstat?i,  16S. 

Cjiant,  The.  Tegner,  37. 

Girl  of  the  Cottage,  The.  Rune- 
berg,  63. 
"  Grant   that  we    die  young." 
Heidenstam,  165. 

Hay-making.  Forsslu7id,  251. 
Heart's  Flower,  The.  Almq^ist, 

5+- 

Hoist  the  Flag.  Oscar  II,  125. 

Home.  Heidenstam,  ijj. 

Home-coming.  Froding,  190. 

Home-land.  Heidenstam,  160. 

House-Goblin,   The.    Rydberg, 
114. 
"How  easily  Men's  Cheeks  are 
Hot   with   Wrath."  Heiden- 
stam, 179. 

Hymn.  IVennerberg,  88. 

Hymn  to  the  Harvest  Moon. 
Karlfeldt,  238. 

1 DEALISM  and  Realism.  Froding, 
191. 
"Idylls  and  Epigrams,"  From. 

Runeherg,  71. 
"If  I  were  a  Poet."  Buath,  155. 


Imagined  Happiness.  Karlfeldt, 

23'- 

Inspiration.  Hallstrom,  246. 

In  the  Elk  Season.  Karlfeldt, 
232. 

Introduction  to  "Spastara's 
Death."  Lidner,  30. 

Introductory  Song.  6'«o/'/j^,  I  30. 

Invocation  and  Promise.  Hei- 
denstam, 166. 

Isolation.  Gellerstedt,  128. 

Ithaca.  Le'vertin,  223. 

K.ING  Erik.  Snoilsky,  145. 
Kisses.  Tegner,  36. 

i-AUGHTER.  Runeberg,  80. 
Legacy,  A.  Leopold,  27. 
Little  Joe- Johnny.  Froding,  193. 
Little  Maia.  Topelius,  97. 
Little  One  Smiles,  The.  Stjerne, 

254. 
Longing.  Rydberg,  110. 
Love-song,  A.  Froding,  186. 

Man's  Last  Word  to  a  Wo- 
man, A.  Heidenstam,  163. 

March,  A.  Geijer,  49. 

March  for  Youth,  A.  Ossian- 
Ndsson,  257. 

Meeting  of  Phantoms.  Osterling, 
264. 

Mignonette.  Geijer,  50. 

Milky  Way,  The.  Topelius,  94. 

Misjudged  Fiddler,  The.  Karl- 
feldt, 243. 

Monica.  Le'vertin,  225. 

Moonbeams.  IVirsen,  150. 

Moonlight.  Heidenstam,  165. 

Morning.  Runeberg,  74. 


Mountain  Trolls.  Froding,  2 1 2. 
Music.  Geijer,  49. 
My  Belief.  Gellerstedt,  127. 
My  Forefathers.  Karlfeldt,  240. 
My  Life.  Heidenstam,  162. 
My  Mother.  Topelius,  91. 

Nameless  and  Immortal. 

Heideiistam,  173. 
Nixie,  The.  Stagnelius,  53. 
Noli  Me  Tangere.  Snoilsky,  144. 
Nota  Bene,  A.  Bellman,  1 3. 

Of  Fishing.  Bellman,  8. 

Of  Haga.  Bellman,  14. 

Of  Madame  BergstrSm's  Por- 
trait at  the  Inn  of  Liiya  in 
Torsh'alla.  Bellman,  9. 

Oh,  Never  Ask!  Fallstrom,  157. 

Old  China.  Snoilsky,  136. 

Old  Mountain  Troll,  The. 
Froding,  188. 

Old  New  Year's  Song,  An.  Le- 
'vertin,  221. 

Old  Room,  An.  Froding,  202. 

Our  Land.  Runeberg,  67. 

Pastoral.  Froding,  196. 

Poor  Monk  of  Skara,  A.  Fro- 
ding, k)-!- 

Porcelain  Factory,  The.  Snoil- 
sky, 138. 

Portraits,  The.  Lenngren,  24. 

Prayer  amid  Flames.  Heiden- 
stam,  162.  [184. 

Prayer-meeting,  The.  Froding, 

Prelude.  Karlfeldt,  229. 

Prince  Aladdin  of  the  Lamp. 
Froding,  191. 

Psyche.  Rydherg,  i  20. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES  279 

Rose-Marie.  Topelius, ^t,. 


Sabbath  Eve.  Strindberg,  151. 
Shipwreck.  Rydberg,  112. 
Sigh  of  the  Forest,  The.  Malm- 

strom,  83. 
'Sigh,  Sigh,  Rushes!"  Froding, 

211. 
Smelting  Furnace,  The.  Tiger- 

schiold,  180. 
Snow  at  Christmas.  Granlund, 

249. 
Snowfrid.  Rydberg,  106. 
Snow-sparrow,  The.  Sehlstedt, 

81. 
Softly,  My  Heart  !  Malmstrom, 

86. 
Soldier  Boy,  The.  Runeberg,  78. 
Solomon's  Hymn  to  the  Moon. 

Le'vertin,  217. 
Song  after  Harvest.   Karlfeldt, 

230. 

Song  of  the  Athenians.  Rydberg, 

105.  [29- 

Song  of  the  Battle-skald.  Lidner, 

Song  of  Sten   Sture,  A.  Bdck- 

str'dm,  147. 
Song  to  the  Sun.  Tegner,  41. 
"Songs  of  Home,"  From.  Hans- 
son,  215. 
Sorrento.  Snoilsky,  139. 
Spring-grass.  Stjernf,  253. 
Spring-time   Sweetheart,  A. 

Froding,  185. 
Starting  on  the  Journey.  Heiden- 

stam,  163. 
Stifled  Music.  Soderberg,  248. 
Stockholm  in  White.  Fallstrom, 
158.  [87. 

Sun-Parasol,    The.     Dahlgren^ 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Sven  Duva.  Runeberg,  56. 
Swan,  The.  Runeberg,  75. 
Sweden.  Heidenstam,  164. 
Swedish  National  Hymn. 
Strandberg,  89. 

Tears.  Runeberg,  70. 

There  is  a  Laddie.  Gellerstedt, 

128. 
Thought.  Runeberg,  76. 
'Thoughts  inLoneIinesSj"F"roni. 

Heidenstam,  168. 
Thy  Grief  is  Thine.  Rydberg, 

105. 
Time    of  Waiting.   Karlfeldt, 

228. 
'T  is  growing  so  hushed  around 

me.  Ta'vaststjerna,  i  S  i . 
To  a  Sea-gull  in  the  Steamer's 

Wake.  Falls tr'dm,  156. 


To  Old  Movitz,  111  with  Con- 
sumption. Bellman,  3. 

To  Ulla  at  a  Window  in  Fish- 
ertown,  Noon  of  a  Summer 
Day.  Belhnan,  15. 

Trouble  not  the  Maiden's  Soul. 
Runeberg,  70. 

Two  Bells,  The.  Rydberg,  100. 

Vagrant,  A.  Karlfeldt,  237. 
Vain  Quest  of  Beauty.  Rydberg, 

99. 
Virgin   Mary,   The.   Karlfeldt, 

234. 

Winter  Night.  Froding,  187. 
Witch  of  King  Charles's  Time, 

A.  Almq-Tjist,  54. 

Youth.  Gripenberg,  262. 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS 


Almqvist,  K.J.  L.,  54,  55. 
Atterbom,  P.  D.  A.,  5  i ,  52. 
Bellman,  K.  M.,  3-17. 
Bergman,  B.,  247. 
Baath,  A.  U.,  155. 
Backstr5m,  E.,  147,  148. 
Dahlgren,  F.  A.,  87. 
Fallstrum,  D.,  I  56-1  59. 
Forsslund,  K.  E.,  251,  252. 
Franzen,  F.  M.,  32. 
Froding,  G.,  183-214. 
Geijer,  E.  G.,  47-50. 
Gellerstedt,  A.  T.,  127-1  29. 
Granlund,  S.,  249,  250. 
Gripenberg,  B.,  262,  263. 
Hallstrom,  P.,  246. 
Hansson,  O . ,  215,  216. 
Heidenstam,  V.  von,  1 60- 

179. 
Josephson,  E.,  i  54. 
Karlfeldt,  E.  A.,  228-245. 
Kellgren,J.  H.,  18-20. 
Lenngren,  A.  M.,  21-26. 
Leopold,  K.  G.  af,  27,  28. 


Leverdn,  O.,  217-227. 
Lidner,  B.,  29-3  i . 
Malmstrom,  B.  E.,  83-86. 
Oscar  II,  125,1  26. 
Ossian-Nilsson,  K.  G.,  257- 

261 . 
Runeberg,  J.  L.,  56-80. 
Rydberg,  V.,  99-1  24. 
-     Sehlstedt,  E.,81,  82. 
Snoilsky,  C,  130-146. 
Stagnelius,  E.  J.,  53. 
Stjerne,  O.,  253-256. 
Strandberg,  K.  V.  A.,  89,  90. 
Strindberg,  A . ,  i  5 1  - 1  5  3 . 
Soderberg,  H.,  248. 
Tavaststjerna,  K.  A. ,  181, 

182. 
Tegncr,  E.,  35-46. 
Tigerschiold,  H.,  180. 
Topelius,  Z.,  91-98. 
Wallin,J.  O.,  33,  34. 
Wennerberg,  G.,  88. 
■    Wirscn,  C.  D.  af,  149,  i  50. 
Osterling,  A.,  264,  265. 


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